


My Kingdom Come

by BrawlerYukon



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bard family feels, Brother Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Cultural Differences, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Interracial By Fantasy Standards, M/M, Original Character(s), Slow Build Relationships, Tags May Change, Thorin's A+ Parenting, Warnings May Change, not botfa compliant, not dos compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:25:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrawlerYukon/pseuds/BrawlerYukon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After opening the river gates, Kili is captured by Thranduil’s soldiers and the company is forced to carry on without him. Separated by lake and forest, a pair of painfully codependent brothers must survive independently for the first time since the youngest was born while under threat of dragons and impending war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is going to be a very large canon departure from both the movies and the books. I walked away from Desolation of Smaug really digging the Kili/Tauriel thing but I wanted to explore a slower build to their relationship and the impact it would have on the people around them. 
> 
> Also I now ship Fili and Sigrid purely from CircusBones' fic so you can blame all of that on her.
> 
> This is the first thing I've written in a really long time and my first venture into Middle Earth. Enjoy.

 

_

 

The pain is unlike any he has ever felt.

  
Its burns and tears and completely engulfs him. Kili falters, the sound of his own screaming and the battle around him drowning out the voices of his brother and uncle. The lever for the river gate is right there - he’s so close he can almost feel it under his fingers - but as he reaches out for it his leg cannot bear his own weight against the pain and he collapses.

  
Around him Orcs and Elves are slaughtering each other. Kili struggles to try and get to his feet, but when he looks up he sees an Orc perched on the stone work above him, a rusted axe raised over his head. It grins down at him through a maw of black rotting teeth and hisses. This was it. This was where his journey will end.

 _I couldn’t even do anything to help them_ , he thinks as the axe glints in the morning sunlight.

  
He braces himself for a blow that never comes. The Orc lets out a squeal as an arrowhead pierces through the back of its skull and peaks out of an eye socket. It spasms and pitches forward, toppling down the bridge until it splashes into the river below.

Tauriel is there, looking at him, a dark scowl on her face but concern in her eyes. She is angry and deadly and so alien he almost can’t meet her eyes. They regard each other warily for one tense moment before Kili finally looks away. He should say something, he thinks, but by the time he convinces himself to look at her again Tauriel is gone. A strange weight settles in his stomach, a problem independent of the arrow in his leg, but he feels it just as keenly.

  
Fighting rages, Dwarves are shouting and the pain in his leg in near unbearable. He tries again, gritting his teeth and pulling himself to slow, shaking feet. His legs feel simultaneously like jelly and lead, his head swimming and his vision is blurring around the edges. One step. Then another.

  
“KILI!”

  
He can do it.

  
The arrow shifts in his flesh as he takes a third step and Kili thinks the pain will blind him.

  
 _I can do it_.

  
Kili is a son of Durin and he will not disappoint Thorin. With all of the strength left in him he reaches for the level and pulls. There is a great scraping of metal and stone as the gate impeding their access to the river swings wide. The others cheer as their barrels once again lurch forward in the current. His own empty barrel bobs along slowly next to his brother's, who is urging him to jump back in.

  
 _I can make it_ , he thinks and he hobbles along the bridge, _If I can just_ -

  
“Not another step Dwarf.”

  
An arrow head is mere millimeters from his eye and Kili freezes.There is an Elf standing firmly between him and the freedom of the river, his bow trained intently on the killing shot. A second Elf materializes behind him, pressing the cold blade of a dagger under his chin. His heart sinks into his gut as he watches his kin floating down the river, out of his reach.

  
“KILI!” his brother is calling after him, frantic, “KILI NO!”

  
Thorin only catches his eye for a moment before his is whisked out of sight. There is a grim expression on his face, one that Kili can only liken to bitter resignation. They were not going to turn back for him; there was nothing that could be done. The Orcs break away from fighting the Elves and begin to pursue the barrels down river. Pain flares in his leg once again and he slumps on his feet. The black arrow is still sticking out of his thigh; he is torn between wanting to pull it out and being too afraid to look at it.

  
The tall blond Elf that Kili vaguely recognizes from their stay in the dungeons runs past them in pursuit of both Orcs and Dwarves. He says something in elvish to the ones holding him captive and then levels one of the most acidic glares at him that Kili has ever seen in his life.

  
“You are going to regret this day, Dwarf,” he snaps before bolting into the trees. All of the Elves save for his two minders follow suit, and he thinks he catches a glimpse of red hair before it disappears into the forest.  
The knife is lifted from his throat and the arrow recedes slightly from its vicinity to his eye socket.

  
“Come along, Dwarf,” the one with the blade spat, “You will be answering to Thranduil for your crimes.”

  
He shoves Kili forward roughly, causing an intense wave of fresh pain to shoot through his system. He cries out and stumbles, barely catching himself before he falls over entirely. His face burns with shame and agony.

  
“I …”

  
 _I can’t._ He wants to say. _It hurts too much_. But Kili still has his Dwarven pride, so he stubbornly seals his lips and shuffles forward a few miserable steps.

  
“Perhaps we should not be so rough,” the one with the bow says, and Kili is somewhat relieved to see a vague resemblance to sympathy on his face, “He has taken an arrow and Prince Legolas would be furious if we let the prisoner die before he can be questioned.”

  
So that arrogant ponce is a prince, is he? That certainly explains a lot.

  
The two Elves have a rapid fire exchange in sindarin that Kili has no hope in understanding, but culminates in the one with the knife sheathing his weapon and running off to the fortress. The other one never lowers his bow, but he does take a small step backwards.

  
“Do not take this as anything more than necessary precaution. Come now, sit here and take the weight off of your leg. I won’t have you die on your feet while you have been put in my care.”

  
The Elf gestures with his bow at some collapsed stone work and Kili manages to limp his way there before gingerly sitting down. It does not lessen the pain, but it becomes somewhat less immediate. He glares out over the river, trying to ignore both the pain and the company.

  
His thoughts turn to his kin.

  
Would they make it? Yes. He had to believe that they would. Thorin would not let his sacrifice be for nothing after all. He would lead them back to the mountain and they would reclaim Erebor. That was the important thing. He wasn’t important. Besides, he was mostly certain that Thranduil would not have him killed. If fate was kind he could still stand in the halls under the mountain with his brother.

  
“That looks deep,” the Elf comments, though Kili does not look towards him, “You should pull it out.”

  
The Dwarf grits his teeth. He knows he has to pull it out but in truth he is afraid to do it. He’s seen what can happen when an arrow comes out badly, and he doesn’t have the confidence in himself to remove it correctly. Not that this Elf has to know about that.

  
“It’s fine,” he spits back and glares down at his boots.

  
It's not fine and he knows it. His fingers hesitantly reach for the shaft, gripping it gently just above the where the head has pierced his thigh. The slight pressure is agony and it takes all of his self control not to spasm and whimper in front of his guard.  
Kili cannot imagine how much this is going to hurt coming out.

  
As he psyches himself up for the inevitable there is once again the sound of movement and footfall. The Elf with the knife returns, accompanied by two more soldiers and a woman in dark mossy green robes. They all speak around him in elvish, not bothering to include him in the conversation that was clearly _about_ him. Kili watches the blood well up around his wound and stain his pants before the woman kneels down beside him and offers some approximation of a smile.

  
“Hello. I am Lalvien.”

  
Kili squints at her suspiciously. She has a not unkind face, but the slight upturn of her lips never quite meets her too blue eyes. White blonde hair is wound in a crown of braids atop her head that is impressive even by Dwarf standards and seems strangely ornamental for an Elf.

  
“Hello,” he responds after almost a full minute of silence, “What do you want?”

  
Her smiles widens for a moment, something almost genuine, before settling back into near non-existence. “What I would like is to not be disturbed by soldiers while I am sitting down to read. But since it seems you have taken a rather nasty wound my books will have to wait. May I?”

  
Lalvien gestures towards his leg with a wave of long, elegant fingers. He nods, tensing when she places a warm hand on his thigh just above the wound.

  
“What is your name Dwarf?” she asks as she leans in close and peers at the arrow shaft from several different angles. If he were not in so much pain or so angry about this turn of events he might think to be embarrassed about having a woman’s face so close to his crotch, elf or not.

  
“Kili,” he mutters reluctantly as those long finger prod at the flesh encasing the arrow head; he bites his lip to keep from screaming.

  
“Tell me Kili, what is something that you enjoy?”

  
“What?”

  
“Tell me about something that gives you pleasure,” she says, tilting her head towards him, “A favoured pastime. A tale from your childhood. A loved one, perhaps?”

 

His brother’s face comes to mind then, and his mother’s and uncle’s. A chain reaction of memories follows, of happier childhood days in the mountain. He doesn’t know why he should be thinking of these things at a time like this.

  
“Why?” he asks, “What is the point of this?”

  
“A treasured memory is perhaps the best comfort I can offer you right now,” she says calmly before grabbing the arrow in her hand and twisting it out of his leg.

  
There is no amount of pride or self control that could have kept in the howl that escapes his throat. Blood gushes up from the wound, freely flowing now that the obstruction is removed. When Lalvien reaches for his leg again he can’t stop himself from lashing out at her, trying to keep her away. The guards swarm him in an instant, pinning him down by the arms and legs so he can scarcely move at all. He screams and screams as the pain radiates like heat from a forge, rolling waves of agony that spread into every muscle and bone. His stomach heaves and bile begins to burn it’s way up his throat. A part of him wants to feel ashamed that he had been so easily done in by a single arrow. Kili is almost glad that others were not here to see him like this - though he secretly wanted nothing more than his brother to be there to hold his hand and tell him it was going to be fine - because he was sure he would never hear the end of it from them.

 

Poor little Kili. Fragile and useless as always.

  
Blackness begins to bleed around the edges of his vision as he feels her hands on him once more. He watches blearily as she balls up strips of snow white cloth and begins to delicately mop up the blood. The pressure is only slight but it feels like she’s stripping away skin with every touch. It is too much too fast, and the \Dwarf can feels himself sliding into unconsciousness.

  
A warm hand presses against his forehead, a soothing gesture amidst the agony. “Easy now,” he hears Lalvien’s voice in his ear, infuriatingly calm, “Go to sleep, Kili.”

He imagines Thorin's disapproving face as his eye lids droop shut. One final pained whine escapes his lips before he surrenders to the merciful lull of the darkness.

 

_

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili wants to go back for his brother, but Thorin has other ideas. Brother angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am overwhelmed with the positive response this has received so far. Thanks to everyone for your support! I hope I can live up to your expectations.
> 
> This first two chapters are a little on the short side and are more like prologues. Future chapters will be lengthier but may take some time to come out.

_

Fili digs his fingers into the rocky sand of the river bank and has never been so grateful in all of his life to be on relatively dry land. He feels as though he must be carrying half of the river with him now; soaked into his clothes, clinging to his skin, weighing down his hair. He coughs up more water, vile and warm as it passes through his mouth and into the sand, and thinks that he will never want to bathe again.

 _Nor will I ever eat another apple_. The stench of them has taken up permenant residence in his nasal cavities and it is near enough to ake him want to throw up.

Everyone looks as miserable as he feels. Poor Bomber looks half drowned, lolling on his back while Bofur makes jokes about beached whales in an attempt to lighten the mood. Ori is emptying his boots back into the river, pointedly ignoring his over protective brother’s pleas to move away from the water. Bilbo is pacing by himself, muttering under his breath about warm hearths and housecoats; it almost makes Fili want to grin.

It had been a rough ride in those barrels, one that they had all been lucky to survive. The river’s current was swift and it was more than once that one of their barrels had crashed into jagged rocks. He might be tempted to say that luck had been on their side, but it was hard to believe in such a concept when his brother was not there with them.

 _He would have loved that_ , Fili thinks as he watched Nori wring out his shirt.

Kili. That stupid, reckless idiot. If only he hadn’t gone to open the gate he would still be with them. Of course they would have all been captured or killed by orcs and really if he is being honest with himself he is angry that he didn’t think to do it himself. Where was Kili now he wondered. Would the elves take care of him or would they let him fester down in their dungeons? Thranduil would be furious after their escape and Kili would be the perfect outlet for revenge.

They had to go back for him. Fili would not leave his brother at the mercy of their enemy.

He spies Thorin, Dwalin and Balin huddled in deep conversation away from everyone else. Dwalin is making big hand gestures in the general direction of where they had traveled from - Mirkwood, and he can’t help himself from scowling - while Thorin responds in hushed words that Fili cannot make out. Balin is simply shaking his head. Generally he knows better than to interrupt them while they are having private conversations but he can’t stop himself from approaching them.

“Uncle,” he says quietly, “We have to go-”

Thorin holds up one hand and lets out a long breath.

“Give us a moment to speak privately,” he says. Dwalin and Balin both nod before shuffling off to join the others; Balin pats him on the shoulder and gives him this look as he leaves and Fili feels his heart clench. He knows that look. It’s the one that says Thorin has made a decision and he doesn’t agree with it but there’s nothing to be done.

“We must go back for him,” Fili insists after the brothers have gone, “We cannot leave him, Uncle.”

“I am sorry, Fili.” The look of finality on Thorin’s face says more than his words do. Fili begins to feel the first icy fingers of panic as they reach for his lungs. This couldn’t be happening.

“I can’t leave him there. I won’t.”

Thorin takes a step towards him, placing his hands on Fili’s shoulders. “I do not make this choice lightly. You can be angry with me if you must, but I am doing this for the good of the Company and for Erebor.”

“How can you say that,” Fili hisses back at him, “You would sacrifice your own flesh and blood for treasure and a lost city?”

He feels his uncle’s hands tighten on his shoulders and thinks that maybe he should mind his tone.

“Do not speak to _me_ of sacrifice, Fili, you know _nothing_ of what it means. I will not risk the success of our mission now, not when we have come so far.”

Tears prick at his eyes and his legs quiver. Thorin steps away, turning his back to Fili and setting his gaze towards the Mountain.

“If we had the time and the resources I would go for him,” he continues, “But as it stands we cannot afford the detour. Durin’s day is fast approaching and there are still orcs on our trail. And even if we could, he is injured and would only be a liability to us. He is better off left with them, where they will tend to his wounds properly. We must press forward. Kili will understand.”

Fili angrily scrubs away the tears with the back of his hand. “Will he? Will he understand we left him alone and wounded at the mercy of an Elvenking that has every reason to despise us?”

“Thranduil will not harm him.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” Fili snapped; he was aware that he was getting louder and the others could hear him now, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care, “What would mother think if she could see you now? I promised her that I would protect him on this quest!”

“Do not bring my sister into this!” Thorin wheeled back on him and the look on his face made all the blood in Fili’s veins feel like ice, “You knew the risks when you signed up for this, you all did, so do not act as though this outcome is a great surprise. I did not want Kili to come on this journey, he is too young-”

Thorin stops himself, realizing he is now shouting and that everyone is probably watching them. His fists clench at his sides as he takes a long, steadying breath.

“I will not speak about this any more with you. Once we have reclaimed Erebor I will deal with Thranduil for your brother’s return. We must keep moving.”

Fili can only watch as his uncle brushes past him and begins barking orders at the rest of the company. He wants them up and ready to move in five minutes. That was it then; they would leave Kili behind. The finality of it made his chest constrict. He fell to his knees in the rocky sand, body shaking with ragged short breaths while he could feel his heart thundering against his ribcage. The tears come again, hot trails of shame and anger that streak down his cheeks. He had failed in his primary function, to protect his little brother at all costs. Fili had made a promise, he had made such a promise, that no harm would come to Kili as long as he was alive. Now he was a liar and a promise-breaker and he would never be able to look his mother in the eyes again.

The worst part of it was that it was his fault Kili was even there in the first place. When they had found out Thorin was leading a quest to take back their homeland, the brothers had practically frothed at the mouth to sign up for it. And while their uncle had accepted Fili into the company readily enough, he had baulked at the idea of Kili joining them as well.

 _He is too young_ , he had said, _He does not have the same experiences you do_.

It had been a bullshit line and Fili knew it. There was very little difference in the practical skill set between them, and though it was not looked upon highly, Kili’s way with a bow would be nothing but a boon to them. Sure, maybe Fili had a few more years of working experience under his belt, but it’s not as though he had been out slaying dragons while Kili sat at home with mother doing nothing. In that regard they were all on an equal level.

And so Fili had begged and pleaded on his brother’s behalf until Thorin had finally relented and allowed his youngest heir to join in on their quest.

 _You must let him do this_ , he remembers saying to both his mother and uncle, _All he wants is to prove himself worthy of his lineage. You know what people say about him, let him show them otherwise._

Fili had fallen to his knees in front of them, much as he was now, swearing oaths left right and centre that he would ensure his little brother’s safety. He promised, on the very halls of Erebor itself, that Kili would not come to any harm.

And now here they were, on opposite ends of a river, one lost and wounded and the other buried under broken vows. There was nothing to be done, nothing that could be done.

He breathes in slowly, deliberate, to try and ease the mantle of panic that is attempting to crush him. It would not help anything for him to have a full blown attack right now; he did not need the others to know what a weak, sentimental fool he really was. Perhaps there would be time for him to break down properly later, in private. As he pulls himself to his feet, he hears a shocked intake of breath, and turns just in time to see an arrow fly through the air and knock a branch out of Dwalin’s hands.

There is a Man standing on the rocky outcropping above them, a long bow in his hands. He already has another arrow notched and trained at Thorin, who is glaring back at him in that was that only Thorin Oakenshield can.

“Do that again and you are all dead, “ the Man says, seemingly non-plussed by the anger of Dwarves, “Who are you? What are you doing in these lands?”

Balin immediately steps in and begins with the diplomacy. Fili only half pays attention, his nerves still frazzled and the loss of his brother at the forefront of his mind. He can see him, if he shuts his eyes, screaming in pain; his heart hurts.

“C’mon lad, we’re off.”

A hand settles on his shoulder for a moment, and Bofur is beside him then. He smiles and inclines his head towards the river. He wonders how long he had really tuned out from what was going on around him, because the Man was not there anymore and the dwarves were beginning to walk up river.

“We’ve got a boat to catch.”

Fili follows his gaze to where a battered old barge is tied off at the shore. The Man is loading up the barrels from Mirkwood; it dips ominously below the water’s surface with every barrel, as though each one will be the one that finally sinks it. The blond dwarf cannot stop himself from making a face.

“Surely that will not carry us all,” he mutters as he trails behind Bofur, “It looks ready to fall apart at a touch.”

“Aye, that it does, but the bargeman assures us that it’s looks are deceiving. Course we can always just tie a rope ‘round Bombur and pull him along behind us, save a bit of structural integrity.”

A chuckle escapes him and Bofur claps him on the back once more before herding him towards the barge. Without prompting he explains that Balin had talked the bargeman into letting them hire him to ferry them into Laketown, and that he would provide them with supplies for the final leg of their journey. It’s a stroke of luck, he supposes, that they would not be stranded in the wilderness with orcs and elves on their tails. Fili does not have the strength of heart to argue with him about luck, so he simply smiles and nods, allowing himself to be lead onto the rickety boat that rocks and creaks with every step.

True to the Man’s word, the barge does in fact support them all - even Bombur, who seems nervous to be back on the water so soon after their barrel ride. Fili settles between Bofur and Ori, who is quiet but gives him pitying looks that he cannot stand. From his vantage point he can see the forest as they push off from the shore and begin their journey into the misty lake. Fili ignores the hushed conversation around him, instead focusing on the fading greens and browns of the trees.

He is in there, somewhere, at the mercy of those they belived had wronged them.

_I am so sorry brother._

_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili wakes up and is not surprised to find himself a prisoner of Thranduil once more. Also, Tauriel is not happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a big thank you to everyone for their support and kind words. It really motivates me to keep going. This chapter took a little longer than I would have liked to finish, mostly because I have had a plague for the last several days. Enjoy.

 

_

 

_An arrow flies true, striking the heart of its target._

_“Ha! Very good little princeling, ya killed that strawman good!”_

_The praise makes his heart sing and Kili turns to grin up at his instructor. It had taken a long while to find someone who was willing to teach him anything beyond the basics of archery - there were other Dwarves who knew how to shoot a bow, but they were mostly hunters who only picked up the skill to bring back meat and pelts and always seemed to quicken their pace whenever Kili approached them. Hadren was passing through the Blue Mountains with a trading caravan, hired protection along with a handful of others, when Kili saw the great longbow he had slung over his back._

_Convincing Hadren to teach him had been easy - all the Man wanted was coin and a bed for the fast approaching winter. Convincing Thorin Oakenshield to allow a stranger to teach his nephew and heir a skill that he found distasteful at best had been another matter entirely._

_There had been a lot of pleading and more than a few tears, but in the end his uncle had relinquished his stubbornness on the matter and allowed Kili to have his teacher._

_Hadren spent that winter with him in the mountains, showing him the finer points of archery as well as teaching him how to repair and maintain a bow and even how to fletch his own arrows. Kili had been beside himself with joy, absorbing each lesson with unbridled eagerness, cataloguing every word that came out of the man’s mouth so the knowledge could never leave him._

_“It looks like ya don’t need my help anymore, Kili. You’ve become a right fine shot.”_

_Now that spring was on it’s way Hadren would be moving on and it made Kili sad. Hadren had been someone that Kili had really grown to like and not having him around on a daily basis was going to be strange._

_“Hey now, don’t look so down,” Hadren reaches down and ruffles his hair, “This is what you wanted right? I reckon you’re probably the best bowman your people will have ever had.”_

_That was probably  true. Dwarves did not covet a bow the way they did axes and swords; Kili had been a bit of an anomaly in that way. He had also taken to the training like a fish to water. They could mock him all they liked for his weapon of choice, but no one could say that he would not master it._

_“Yes,” he replies sullenly, “But I’ll still miss you.”_

_Hadren laughs and musses his hair again. “Hey now, don’t go acting like it’s the end of the world. I’ve passed through this place plenty ‘o times before and I am like to do so again.  Maybe next time rolls around you’ll be teachin’ me something new, eh?”_

_Kili laughs too. He is still sad, and he will be for some time, but he doesn’t want Hadren to think he’s a baby or anything. He’ll be fourty come that autumn and he wants people to stop treating him like a child._

_“Sun is starting to get low, let’s call it a day then. I’ll see you back here tomorrow, right after breakfast?”_

_The dwarf nods enthusiastically and runs off to the target dummies they had strung into the trees to retrieve arrows. It was his responsibility to look after all of their gear and the Man would scold him fiercely if he was negligent with it. He gathered up the arrows - it became an easy task for him now that he consistently hit his mark - venturing into the stilted pines that grew around the mountain. Only a few shots had missed the dummies, usually when Hadren would try to distract him, and he would do his best to collect as many as possible._

_Kili kneels down in the snow to dig out one of his arrows when it happens. Something hard and cold collides with the back of his head, sending him face first into the snow. The sound of heavy boots crunching in the snow was quickly approaching him, and as Kili attempts to push himself up he is promptly pushed back down; his bow and his arrows scatter around him. A boot, square between his shoulder blades, presses into his spine._

_“Don’t move,” a voice warns him; Kili did not recognize it, but he knows the intention immediately._

_“Hadren!” he calls out for his teacher, and is rewarded with another semi-frozen snowball to the side of the head._

_“The Man is gone,” a second voice laughs from somewhere behind him, “No one is going to hear you.”_

_Kili tries to twist his head to see who it is, but every time he moves the boot digs deeper into his back._

_“You’re an embarrassment to the Line of Durin,” one of them shouts as more snow is hurled at him, “Using a bow like a coward! Why would you want to use a thing like that? An axe not good enough for you?”_

_Out of his peripheral vision he sees a gloved hand snatch his bow from the ground. His heart sinks in his chest as the sound of splintering wood and laughter fills the late afternoon air. The tears come and he can’t stop them._

_“Look at that, the baby is crying. Stupid ugly Kili with his elf weapon and and his bare face!”_

_Snow melts in his hair and against his skin, seeping down his neck and into his coat. He is not sure how many there are - at least three, judging by the snowballs that are pelting him, maybe more - but he knows there is nothing he can do now but wait out their torment. Kili stops struggling and goes limp with a resigned whine._

_“At least his brother isn’t such an embarrassment,” one of them crows, “Good thing Fili is the older one, I would never follow a beardless, elf-loving King.”_

_Fili. His brother had wanted to come and watch him practice so they could spend some time together, but Thorin had insisted that he spend the afternoon in combat training with Dwalin. If Fili were here to protect him this wouldn’t be happening; they always waited until he was alone, far from the shelter of his older brother or his archery teacher.  They must have been waiting past the tree line for Hadren to leave; for the perfect time to strike._

_“You think he’ll ever grow a beard?”_

_“Probably not, look at that smooth skin of his. Like a babe’s ass and twice as ugly.”_

_“Haha bare faced Kili!”_

_“Bare faced Kili,” they chant as they hurl ice balls at him. Laughter closes in on him like a fog until he chokes on it._

_Bare face._

_“Fili!” he whines for his brother but the voices get louder._

_Bare face. Bare face. Bare face. Bareface.BarefacebarefacebarefaceBAREFACE_

_BARE FACE_

**_BARE FACE_ **

 

“FILI!”

 

Kili bolts upright, chest heaving as the air burns in his lungs; every muscle in his body is clenched tight, locked down by fear. There’s a throbbing ache in his leg, and it feels like all the blood in his body has been replaced with boiling water.  Everything  hurts, but for several moments he can’t remember why. All he can think on are memories and shame; dark formless laughter that has haunted him since he was small. Sweat is sliding down his skin and congealing in his hair. He manages to unclench one hand and bring it, shaking, to scrub at his face. When he glances down he sees white sheets beneath him, smudged with dirt and dampness where his fingers had once gripped them.

 

He realizes he is in a bed. It is soft and warm beneath his weight, and had panic and pain not been over taking his senses he might think that it was the most comfortable bed he had ever been in. Despite the fact that he is too warm and sweating he has been stripped down to only his small clothes. A thick white bandage wraps around his upper thigh on the left leg, a smear of too dark crimson blooming through the middle.

 

Kili remembers everything.

 

The memory of the arrow tearing into his flesh makes the pain flare anew, and Kili falls back into the soft sheets with a low moan. He doesn’t feel right.  Being the reckless idiot that his mother and brother affirm him to always be, Kili has seen his fair share of injuries. Nothing this severe mind, but his life has seen blood and bruises and even a couple of broken fingers before this. Pain is not a stranger, but there is something alien in the way his skin itches and burns, the way his stomach turns and his head spins. He wishes, more than anything, that Fili were there. His brother would yell at him for being so stupid, then he would run his fingers through his hair and assure him that everything was going to be fine. He would wipe his brow with a cold cloth and tell him a story about their father or of the halls of Erebor or some other grand tale he had heard from travellers through the Ered Luin.

 

Kili feels the absence keenly and it hurts almost as much as his wound.

 

He had never been in real danger without Fili there to back him up and he didn't know what he was going to do. As the younger brother he had always turned to his older brother to solve his problems. Whether it was other children bullying him for picking up a bow or Thorin berating them for almost losing their ponies to Trolls - Kili had still not properly thanked Fili for taking the brunt of their uncle’s anger on that one - Fili always knew just what to do or say to make things better.

 

 _Brother I need you_ , he thinks as he shifts in the bed, trying to redistribute his body’s resting pressure to his good side.

 

“Do not thrash about so much, you will only aggravate your wound.”

 

Kili nearly falls out of the bed and is surprised that he is not alone. He should have known by how absurdly large the bed was, much too grand for any of his own folk, that he was back in the Elven stronghold. The room he has found himself in is also quite large and at the opposite end of it, leaning against a door of wood and iron, was Tauriel. She glares at him across the expanse between them and Kili feels himself shrink into the bed, just a little bit.

 

“Where am I?” he asks hesitantly, though he is sure he already knows the answer.

 

Tauriel huffs, shifting her weight on the balls of her feet; Kili identifies it as a restless gesture. “You are within the inner sanctum of Lord Thranduil’s domain. You were brought here after you passed out.”

 

He is surprised to not be back in the dungeons. Wherever he is within Thranduil’s halls, it is the sort of room the Kili would expect to house a welcomed guest; certainly not an enemy who has just escaped their watch. Like most of the elven architecture he had seen during his journey, the space seems to exist as if trees had grown around it. There are no windows here, the only way in or out was the massive door that Tauriel was currently blocking. A long wooden bench took up the entirety of one wall, it’s surface littered with strange potted plants, glass vials and sheafs of paper. Next to his bed is a small end table; a copper bowl filled with water and a small stack of linens rest on top.

 

Perhaps this was some sort of recovery room?

 

“These are much nicer accommodations than my previous stay,” he says, smiling a little despite his discomfort; he hopes to recapture the spirit of earlier conversations they had shared.

 

Tauriel, however,  does not seem inclined towards cheerful banter. “He does not trust you to be left in the dungeons after what happened. And he is not so unkind as to leave someone wounded without proper care, even if they are a prisoner.”

 

Ah. That certainly explained why he was in a nice soft bed with clean dressings on his leg instead of festering in a cell. Kili gingerly began to sit himself up, mindful not to jostle his leg too much. It took far too much time than he would have liked and he felt Tauriel’s eyes on him the entire time.

 

“And what of my kin?”

 

Kili is almost afraid of her answer. He does not think he could bear it if the others had been captured, or worse yet, killed by either orcs or elves. For a few tortuous seconds she regards him with a cold, blank stare.

 

“We pursued them down river, but both the dwarves and the band of orcs escaped. From what I could observe all of your kin continued unharmed. Whether or not the remains of the orc pack have caught up to them I do not know.”

 

Relief washes over the young dwarf as a knot of tension leaves his body. They had made it. They would carry on. It makes Kili happy to know that he had finally done something right. Tauriel took a small step away from the door, toward his bed, a frown creasing her brow.

 

“Try not to look too joyful over my failures, dwarf. Even if they have eluded us you are still a prisoner.”

 

“Oh. You were probably held to blame for our escape, weren’t you?”

 

“Partially, yes.” She crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at him, “We still cannot work out how you escaped from the dungeons, and do not think that I will allow you to cloud my judgement a second time.”

 

He remembers the time they had spent talking while he had been in his cell, how she had smiled and talked about the light of the stars. It had meant something to him, and he did not want her to think that their words had been some kind of ruse.

 

“I’m sorry,” Kili says quietly, “I mean, I am not sorry that we escaped, but I am sorry that you had to bear the blame. I did not intend -”

 

“Intentions are irrelevant,” she snaps, “The damage has already been done.”

 

That tentative bridge between them seems to crumble before his eyes and Kili feels a sadness strike him. Had there been trust between them? Had there been something? It is foolish, he knows, to worry over whether he had hurt the feelings of one elf maid over their bid for freedom. Elves were the very embodiment of everything that dwarves had been taught to despise - especially these Mirkwood elves, who had abandoned their people in their time of need. Arrogant, beardless, fragile things.

 

But Tauriel. Well, Tauriel had saved his life - twice now. She had shown him kindness and shared her words with him when she did not have to. They had spoken about the stars and the earth and how very different their peoples were and never in his life had Kili had a woman other than his mother smile at him so much. He had thought, at first, he could use her good will in some way to aid in an escape plan. But as she talked about starlight and her love of the woods and her people that idea had drifted away and instead he spoke of the Blue Mountains and the places he had seen on his journey.

 

Kili feels the keen sting of regret and can no longer meet her eyes.

 

“I did not mean to slight you. I did enjoy our conversation and for what it is worth I had no part in organizing the escape.”

 

The words hang in the air between them. Kili risks a sidelong glance at the elf, but she is looking down at her boots. Most of her face is obscured by her red hair, but from what he can see her expression is still stony. He wants to say more, but then the large door swings open and another elf enters the room. He recognizes her as the one who had pulled the arrow from his thigh and his mood darkens. As if in response to her presence his wound aches just a little bit more intensely.

 

“Ah, you are awake,” she says as she approaches his bedside, “How do you feel, young dwarf?”

 

Lalvien. That was her name, he thinks.

 

“Like shit scraped from a troll’s foot,” he scowls up at her, “How do you think I feel?”

 

He is surprised by the sound of laughter that escapes her throat; he did not think elves capable of it. “I feel as though I must apologize for my methods, though I assure you the arrowhead came out cleanly. I am quite practiced at that skill.”

 

“If it came out so cleanly why am I in so much pain?”

 

Lalvien sits on the edge of his bed but does not answer the question. There is a small clay pot in her hands that he had not noticed before, and a pungent smell wafts from it as she gently removes the lid. She reaches for his bandaged leg, but Kili pulls away. She narrows her eyes at him fractionally, to which he responds by inching away from her a little further.

 

“You can be  so stubborn even over the simplest of things.”

 

“Tell me why it hurts so much,” he says, “And then you can do whatever you like.”

 

“There is an … infection,” Kili does not like the way she hesitates with her words, “We can cleanse it, however …”

 

She  trails off and he scowls up at her. “However? However what?”

 

“I have been ordered to hold on treating the poison until after King Thranduil has had words with you.”

 

“Poison? I’ve been poisoned? That is not the same as infection!” He wants to be angrier but the effort makes him feel light headed. Instead he comes off as a bit of petulant child. Still, the sentiment is the same.

 

“It is and it isn’t. The arrow that you took was a Morgul bolt. Do you know what that means?”

 

Morgul. He’s heard that word before but he can’t quite remember where. One of Balin’s lessons maybe, and by the look that the elf is giving him he thinks that maybe he should have paid more attention. Kili wants to ask just what that means, but he doesn’t want to look stupid in front of them.

 

“It comes from a dark place,” Lalvien says after a few moments of silence, “A place far from here. Morgul weapons carry a taint, a seeping darkness that will consume you if left unchecked. It is in your blood and it will spread, as an infection does, until there is nothing left of you.”

 

Minas Morgul. He remembers now, when Balin had taught him the histories of the kingdoms of Men. Once a beautiful city, it was over run with dark sorcery and spirits. His entire body shudders and he has a real fear that he might throw up right then and there.

 

“I’m going to die then?” he asks, unable to keep his voice from quivering.

 

“You will not die,” he is surprised to see Tauriel standing much closer to his bed, “I told you as such, did I not?”

 

“You did. Perhaps I will just be made to suffer until your Lord grows bored of me?”

 

There is anger on her face, but Kili can also see a small amount of concern peeking through her outrage, and he dares to hope that maybe all is not lost between them. Perhaps he can mend this crumbled bridge. She says something quietly in Sindarin, to which Lalvien nods. Tauriel turns and leaves, closing the door behind her.

 

“Where is she going?”

 

“To inform Thranduil that you are awake. Now if you are done being a dwarf, would you please allow me to change your dressing? I may not be able to cleanse you fully, but I can at least make you a little more comfortable.”

 

Kili huffs and nods his assent, lying back into the bed to allow Lalvien to work. He takes long, bracing breaths and she gingerly peels back the bandages - which feels like she is sloughing off chunks of meat from his thigh and does not help his building fear of vomiting - and definitely does not make any kind of whining sound when a warm wet cloth makes contact with the wound. When he turns his head he catches a brief glimpse of the soiled cloth dipping into the copper bowl, stained an unnaturally dark colour that in no way makes him think of blood.

 

“I thought you said you were going to make me more comfortable,” Kili says as he stares resolutely at the ceiling, “Thus far you have a perfect record of making me  exponentially more pained every time you lay hands on me.”

 

“My apologies, but healing is not always about instant gratification. One day though, when you are walking properly on that leg of yours, you will think to yourself ‘perhaps I should have been more thankful to that elf who knew just the right angle to tear that arrow out of my thigh so the muscle could heal correctly’.”

 

He is not certain if she is serious or if this is some attempt at humor. “I will consider it. And I am though. Thankful, I mean. I’m sure you would rather be doing something else than tending to an dwarf.”

 

“I could compose a ballad of all of the things I would rather be doing.”

 

He can’t see her face but he is pretty sure he hears a smile so he throws caution to the wind and out and out laughs. There is some regret, as it makes every part of him burn with agony.

 

“Keep still dwarf,” her hand goes to his shoulder, pressing him gently back into the sheets, “Let us say that we would both rather be off doing other things and agree to be civil with one another. I think we can manage that, yes?”

 

“Fine, fine. But if we are going to be civil then you can at least address me by a name rather than ‘dwarf’.”

 

“Very well, master Kili, I -”

 

“Just Kili. Master Kili makes me uncomfortable.”

 

A sigh. “Very well, _Kili_ , I am going to apply this salve to your wound. It is going to hurt a lot and then it will be numb.”

 

“Great. Do you have any healing techniques that don’t leave people in a great deal of pain?”

 

“No, not especially,” she replies before pressing two cold fingers directly into his open wound.

 

He cries out in a very undignified way as pain lances through his leg and and white spots bloom in his vision. Lalvien keeps one hand on his shoulder as she goes for more of the ointment, smearing it across his thigh like she was painting a canvas. Kili bites down hard on one knuckle to keep from crying out, the faintest flecks of copper catching his tongue. _By Mahal_ does it ever _burn_. He breathes rapidly through his nose as the medicine sears into his flesh, tears welling behind his eyes as he desperately tries to blink them back.

 

 _You are a Son of Durin_ , he repeats in his mind, _Do not show them weakness.Do not cry in front of an elf._

 

When she is satisfied that the ointment has sufficiently covered a large enough surface area around the arrow wound the small pot is set aside. True to her word, the painful burning begins to subside into a kind of numbness. Kili presses his palms against his eyes and tries to get his breathing back under control.

 

“There is no shame in expressing your pain,” Lalvien remarks as she wipes her fingers with a damp cloth, “I will not belittle your suffering.”

 

It is a nice sentiment, but he still holds back his need to scream as she begins to rewrap his leg. Though it is not quite as excruciating it is still a very unpleasant experience. He is shaking and still on the verge of tears as she ties the dressing off. She pats him softly on the shoulder.

 

“There now, that was not so bad.”

 

As he lays there and wonders just how much pain he would cause himself by leaning up to throttle her the door opens once more, and Kili feels Lalvien’s hand tighten on his shoulder briefly before she stands. He turns his head but she is blocking his line of sight and his eyes are having trouble focusing on anything that is not directly in front of him.

 

“My Lord Thranduil.”

 

He is not sure but Kili thinks the temperature in the room might have dropped by a few degrees.

 

“Leave us. Now.”

 

Lalvien says nothing further, immediately moving away from the bed and exiting the room. The door draws closed with an ominous thud behind her. Kili feels himself starting to sweat a little more and it has nothing to do with his wound or the poison in his blood. The Elvenking looms above him, eyes wide with barely restrained anger, lips curled back into a sneer of perfectly white teeth.

 

Kili wonders if it is too late to feign passing out.

 

_

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo Baggins marvels at the hospitality of Bard the bargeman and his family. Thorin Oakenshield, as usual, is less than impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry this chapter took so long, thanks to all my wonderful readers who have been patient. I had a difficult time with this for some reason and had to rewrite it a few times before I was happy.

 

-

 

There was a time in his life when Bilbo Baggins thought that there would be no smell he despised more than that of apples. It was a time that been only an hour ago, before he and his dwarven companions had spent the last leg of their barge ride covered in slimy, stinking lake trout. He is never so glad in all of his life when his barrel tips over and Bard is there to offer him a hand up.

 

“On your feet Mr. Baggins,” the man says tersely, “We must get moving before you lot are seen by too many.”

  
Bilbo notes that Bard does not offer the dwarves any kind of assistance, and marvels at how a little common courtesy can go a long way.

 

They are corralled through the narrow winding laneways of Laketown, ducking around corners and hiding in doorways when Bard snaps at the to do so - Thorin has a look of sheer irritation on his face that seems to intensify every time the man directs them to do anything, and Bilbo does his best to keep a couple of dwarves between them at all times. Despite Bard’s best efforts, the hobbit catches at least a few eyes turn in their direction and hopes desperately that they will not suffer for it later.

 

They make it to Bard’s house without being seen by any of the Laketown guard at least, even if they did end up crawling through the man’s toilet to do it. Though Bilbo is personally not all that put off by it - really it’s just the crowning touch of an escalatingly awful day and he does his best to remember that he is still alive so things could always be worse - most of the dwarves are fuming when they pull themselves out of the water.

 

There is a concern when Bombur can’t quite fit through, even when his brother and cousin do their best to try and pull him up forcefully. Bilbo tries to lend a hand, but it makes no difference. The dwarf is simply too big to fit through that hole. In the end Bifur breaks the top off of the toilet in frustration, muttering in Khuzdul under his breath with a wild look in his eyes, so they can haul the over sized dwarf into the house.

 

“We’ll fix it up for ya, right away!” Bofur assures when Bard comes back down the stairs with murder in his eyes, “Right now even, if you’ll spare me the tools.”

 

The man’s gaze travels from his ruined toilet to Bofur to Bombur - the large dwarf looks absolutely miserable slumped against a wall while Bifur chatters at him and pats him on the shoulder - then finally back to the toilet. He exhales a long breath through his nose and clenches his teeth.

 

“BAIN!” he shouts, and the young boy who had been leading the other dwarves up the stairs is immediately at his side, “Take Master …”

 

“Bofur, at your service.” The dwarf bows and flourishes his arms a little; Bard sighs again.

 

“Take Master Bofur to get the tools he needs.”

 

“Yes Da. Um, follow me please.”

 

“That’s a good lad,” Bofur crows and claps him on the back, “Lead the way. I’ll have this fixed before you know it.”

 

They disappear up the stairs, Bard following closely behind and swearing under his breath. The man’s patience was clearly being tested to its limits, but he holds to his word and welcomes the company into his house, if somewhat grudgingly. Bilbo decides he likes him quite a bit even if he was a bit gruff. Putting up with these dwarves was certainly a challenge, as he could attest to through his own experience, and the fact that he had gone to such lengths to smuggle them safely into Laketown spoke highly of his character.

 

Bilbo, suddenly unsure of what exactly he should be doing if anything at all, went to Bombur’s side. The dwarf regards him with a stiff smile as he hovers in the space around him.

 

“Thanks for yer help there, Mister Bilbo,” he says quietly, “I’m a touch embarrassed about that, but nothing to be done about it now.”

 

“It’s just a toilet,” the hobbit replies, “I’m sure Bofur will have it fixed up in no time. How are you though, you seem out of sorts.”

 

Out of sorts was perhaps putting it too mildly, but Bilbo did not want to be rude. He and Bombur got along very well, having shared more than a few long conversations about fine foods and ales during the length of their journey. Seeing him now, his skin blanched like ashen paper, his hands trembling ever so slightly, raises alarms for the hobbit. He knew Bombur had not taken well to their trip down the river; their ride with the bargeman and the swim in the lake had probably not done wonders for him either.

 

“I’m quite certain I was never meant to swallow so much river water. It’s not agreeing with me over much I’m afraid. I think I might need to have a rest, a something to eat of course.”

 

Bifur snorts and makes wild hand gestures,which Bilbo does not understand but Bombur responds with a strained chuckle.

 

“I do feel bad about having to break that man’s toilet box, but I’m sure brother will have it repaired good as new. It’ll give him something to keep his mind busy at least.”

 

Above them Bilbo can hear the sounds of busy movement, the old wooden floorboards creaking with footfall. If he strains his hearing he is pretty sure he can hear Thorin expressing his displeasure at something, which did not surprise him in the slightest; if Bilbo Baggins had learned anything about Thorin Oakenshield it was that he liked to complain and disagree with pretty much everyone and everything.

 

The stubbornness of dwarves was incredible.

 

The stairs creak once more, and while he expects Bofur to be there with an arm full of tools he instead is greeted by the sight of a young maid; Bard’s eldest daughter, he assumes. She is not so tall as Bard, but has at least a head over all the dwarves and more so over himself, with dark blonde hair and a kind face. There is a pile of clothing in her arms, which her head barely peeks over the top of.

 

“Excuse me, I have some dry clothes for you if you would like them. They will probably not fit you so well but they have not been through the toilet or covered in fish.”

 

Bilbo goes to her, eagerly taking the load from her hands. “Ah, thank you very much. It will be nice to slip into something dry and not reeking of trout. We will be certain to thank your father for his generosity.”

 

Now that she is no longer burdened with the material she seems to see Bilbo properly for the first time. She blinks at him and tilts her head, and he has the clear impression that she might be trying to work something out.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, a note of embarrassment in her voice at having been caught staring, “Da only mentioned dwarves. You are one of the Shire folk, are you not? The halfling people? I have heard about you before but I had never thought to see any of your people in Laketown.”

 

“Ah, yes I am. Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” he replies with a smile, “And there is certainly no need for apologies, not when you are bringing us these gifts. What is your name?”

 

She still looks embarrassed but smiles all the same. “Sigrid.”

 

“It is lovely to meet you Sigrid. Thank you for the clothes.”

 

Her gaze travels over to Bombur and a frown creases her brow. She goes to kneel next to the dwarf with concern in her eyes. “Are you ill Master Dwarf?” she asks and presses the back of her hand to his forehead, “Oh, you do feel warm.”

 

“It has not been a kind day for me lassy,” Bombur manages a smile though Bilbo can see the grimace in his eyes; he reckons that Sigrid probably can as well. “Some of us just aren’t built for water.”

 

“There is a fire upstairs, you should get out of these wet clothes and come and sit in front of it. I’ll make you some hot tea as well. Can you stand?”

 

It takes a good ten minutes or so, but between Sigrid, Bifur and Bilbo they manage to get Bombur dressed - Sigrid steps away for this, staring at the floor and whistling while Bilbo and Bifur struggle with too much wet clothing -  to his feet, up the stairs and settled in front of the warmth of their small hearth. Oin joins them as well when Bilbo calls for him and laments the fact that most of his herbs and powders had been confiscated by the Mirkwood elves. Sigrid brews him a strong smelling tea that the hobbit imagines must taste awful.

 

“Ah, looks like the beginnings of a fever,” the old dwarf says, “How is that great gut of yours feeling lad? More than a little upset I take it?”

 

“More than a little,” Bombur agrees. He downs the large mug of foul smelling tea in an impressive three gulps and politely asks Sigrid for another cup. The girl looks stunned as she takes the mug and goes to prepare another batch.

 

Oin does not look impressed. “Take it easy there. You may still have an appetite but it might be best to show some restraint and let your insides settle. Between you and Dori I think we may be waylaid for a day or so.”

 

“What’s wrong with Dori?”

 

“He’s got Lake Rash,” Sigrid reappeared with another mug of tea. Besides her, a younger girl with wide eyes and a bright smile has a blanket in her arms. Sigrid hands over the tea to Bombur, who obligingly leans forward so the girl can drape the blanket around his ample frame. She timidly introduces herself as Tilda, and then mostly hides behind her sister’s skirt. The blanket looks very soft and warm and for a moment Bilbo had a pang of jealousy.

 

“What is Lake Rash?” he asks in an attempt to take his focus away from thoughts of comfort.

 

“Lake Rash is common amongst travellers who come to Laketown. The skin becomes red and irritated, and it can be quite itchy and painful if left untreated. It comes from handling fish, so often merchants and traders who pass through the town can develop it if they are not careful. Usually though we see it on the hands, not generally the face.”

 

“Was he rubbing the fish on his face?” Tilda asks with the honest curiosity that only children can, “That seems silly. Why did he do that?”

 

Sigrid gives her a harsh look. “Don’t be rude Tilda.”

 

“Will he be alright?”

 

“Oh yes, it can be treated with a simple poultice that eases the discomforts and soothes the skin. The reagents are easy to come by, I can make a quick trip to the herbalist to get them. As long as it is applied frequently and he gets some rest it should clear up.”

 

Bilbo cranes his head around to try and spot Dori in the throng of dwarves milling about the small house. He sees him sitting by a window, and sure enough his face is a mass of angry red splotches that make the hobbit wince. The fussy dwarf looks absolutely miserable while young Ori hangs at his side; his hands go to his face as if to itch, stopping just short when Ori puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head.

 

“Thorin is not going to be happy,” Oin quietly mutters under his breath, “We are cutting it too close.”

 

Thorin was definitely not going to be happy. Their leader was huddled in the far corner of the house in counsel with Balin, Dwalin and Fili. He could not see them very well from his vantage, but he could imagine what was happening. Thorin would be eager to move as soon as possible, and Dwalin would likely be in full support. Balin though, he would try to counsel that they wait at least a day to recover themselves, though it was unlikely they would listen. Fili, who was really the only one Bilbo could see clearly, did not seem to be actively participating in the discussion, instead staring down at his boots and nodding occasionally. The abandonment of Kili - at which Bilbo was alarmed by how the other dwarves just seemed to accept this and move on without a word about it - was still fresh and likely weighing on his thoughts.

 

Durin’s Day was close, mere days away if he had understood them correctly, and if they wanted to make their goal they could not linger too long in Laketown. What will Thorin do, he wonders, though he is certain he knows the answer already.

 

“I’ll go to the herbalist, fetch what we need to make the poultice,” Sigrid says after a long period of silence, “And something to help soothe your stomach ache Master Bombur,” she turns to Oin, “Perhaps you would care to come with me? I can help you-”

 

“No, Sigrid,” Bard appears at her side, placing a hand on her shoulder and pulling her back towards him, “They cannot leave the house, nor should you.”

 

“But Da, we need to get -”

 

“It is too dangerous. I am being watched by the Master and I will not endanger my children any further by bringing the town guards to my door.”

 

“I’m not a child, I can manage a trip to see the herbalist. Besides, the house is always being watched, how will it be any different then when I go out on my regular errands?”

 

Bard grits his teeth at the defiance. “Sig, don’t be difficult.”

 

“And who are you to tell us where and when we cannot go?” Thorin’s voice cut across the house, “Are we your prisoners now bargeman?”

 

Bilbo was suddenly very uncomfortable.

 

“I am not holding you captive, dwarf, but if you mean to get yourselves caught by the guard then go ahead and leave. You came into our city without proper invite and I am constantly being watched, believe me when I say you will get arrested.”

 

“We paid you for aid,” Thorin growls as he stalks his way over to their end of the room, “Not to be shuttered in your house like fugitives.”

 

“I am aiding you, whether you believe it or not. Sig,” Bard turns back to his daughter, who looks as though she is terrified to even breathe; Bilbo feels the same way, “Take a list from our guests of what supplies they need and go to the market. Take Bain with you.”

 

He reaches into his pocket and presses a pouch of coins into her hand. “Stop at Widow Heike’s place, make sure she has been eating and is properly warm. And pass some coin onto the lass at the tailor’s place for stitching up Tilda’s coat the other day.”

  
“Da, I am perfectly -”

 

“Don’t argue with me Sigrid. Take your brother with you. Please.”

 

There is a deep concern underlying his tone,one of a father who deeply worries for his children. A pang of guilt runs through the hobbit at having invaded these people’s lives with their insanity. Hopefully it will not be a long stay, he does not think he can bare to make things difficult for sweet young Sigrid or her father who seems to care too much.

 

“Yes Da,” she relents to his demands and conferences quietly with Oin about what they will need for their sick and the journey ahead.

 

“Supplies are not the only thing we paid for,” Dwalin stands at Thorin’s side, arms crossed over his broad chest, “We need weapons as well.”

 

Bard sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair, fingers digging into his scalp. “I will find you weapons, but you can at least show me the courtesy of some patience.”

 

“We do not have the time for patience,” Thorin snaps, “Can you arm us or not bargeman?”

 

“Weapons of quality will be hard to come by,” Bard says as he begins to pace, “No one but the city guard are permitted to carry steel by order of the Master, and those weapons will be locked up in the armoury. The rest of us must usually make do on our own with what we can scavenge and piece together.”

 

The scowl on Thorin’s face could strip paint from a wall. “So you have mislead us then?”

 

“No. I said they would be hard to come by, not impossible. You have to give me some time though, there are people I can speak with who will have access to things that are normally unattainable.”

 

“A black market?” Balin asks, a hint of distaste in his tone.

 

“A free market,” the man corrects him, “For those who need it.”

 

For several tense moments Thorin and Bard stare at each other. The room is so deathly silent and still that Bilbo is sure that everyone is holding a single collective breath.

 

“We depart at first light tomorrow morning,” Thorin finally says in a surprisingly diplomatic tone; Bilbo feels some tension leave his body, “With or without the items we have paid for.”

 

“And what of your ailing company?” Bard asks “This is not a -”

 

“We leave at first light,” he repeats, “We _all_ leave at first light.”

 

Bilbo glances at Bombur, deathly pale in the soft glow of the firelight as he huddles under the blanket. Sigrid’s young sister is patting him on the knee and telling him that he’ll be fine because Sigrid is really good at making her feel better when she is sick. The hefty dwarf needs time to rest and recover, not to be dragged up a mountain and thrown in front of  dragon. And poor Dori with his skin rash would not fare much better. Would Thorin really force them forward?

 

_It would be kinder to leave them behind as he did with …_

 

He cannot finish the thought. It was not kindness, Bilbo knew, that lead Thorin Oakenshield to abandon his nephew to the mercy of King Thranduil. They needed to keep moving, to distance themselves from the orcs and the elves. If there was any hope in reaching Erebor before Durin’s Day then they could not spend their time devising a plan to rescue Kili. The King Under the Mountain was driven forward by the belief that he was going to reclaim his home. Everything else was distraction and delay, and he could not afford that. Not for Kili, certainly not for Bombur or Dori.

 

Something had shifted in Thorin since his recovery from their encounter with Azog on that cliffside. Bilbo could not quite pinpoint what it was or why it had happened, but he was certain that he did not like it. Even now he could see the frustration plainly on Thorin’s face when Bard has been nothing but reasonable with him. Why is he so angry? Why does he have to be this way when this man was trying to aid them?  Perhaps he could speak to Balin about their leader’s erratic moods. If anyone could offer him insight it would be the old advisor.

 

Bilbo slips his left hand into the pockets of his damp vest - why was he still wearing these clothes when Sigrid had given him dry ones anyways - and lets his fingers graze the surface of his ring. A deep soothing calm fills him and it is very hard to quell the urge to slip it on and disappear for a few hours. It was unlikely they would notice he was gone, especially now while they were all on edge. In the end he does not, ignoring that whispering voice in the back of his mind that keeps telling him to _just put it on already. Just for a moment_. He is left feeling empty, as if the act of resistance has damaged something, and quietly excuses himself to a corner to put on the clothes Sigrid has given him.

 

If he continues to sit in the corner, hand in his pocket while he shivers and makes excuses to himself, well that’s really nobody’s business but his own.

 

_

  


The wargs pace at the edge of the trees, skirting left and right in an impatient dance. There are too many enticing smells in the air and it is driving the beasts to near madness. Far below them the lake shimmers in the week afternoon sunlight and behind them, cloaked by the forest, the remains of their force hastily assemble a makeshift camp.

 

Bolg stands over it all as rage  simmers in his blood.

 

His father would skin him if he ever found out that Oakenshield and his company had escaped them, or that they had nearly been wiped out by stinking elves in the process. It was an embarrassment, a scar on his pride as a servant of their Master, and the orc would not let this stand. He would have all of their heads at the end of this. Dwarves. Elves. The Lake Men, for good measure - he is certain that those rats would go crawling to them for shelter and aid.

 

Every single one of them was going to die and Bolg was going to see it done.

 

He has half a mind to let the wargs do as they would like. It would only take a word for them to charge howling into the daylight, descending to the lake to flush out their quarry and crush them in their jaws. But as much as he wished it, he knew they must be patient and wait for the right moment to strike. They were too few in numbers now for an all out assault, and as much as it enraged him he was prepared to play it safe for the time being.

 

One of the wargs pauses mid step, lifting it’s head to peer into the trees to their left. Bolg grips his mace and wheels in that direction, but it is only two of his scouts returning from their  task at the lake. They approach him hesitantly, as they always do, but one of them can’t seem to keep a self satisfied grin off of his ugly mug.

 

“What did you find?” the big orc snaps impatiently, hefting his weapon in case he does not enjoy the news as much as they seem to think he might.

 

“It’s as you said,” the smug one reports, “The filthy dwarves are hiding among the lake men. Caught sight of them sneakin’ in on a barge.”

 

“And the town? What are it’s defences?”

 

The other orc shakes his head. “Ain’t much. They have some armed guards but I reckon they don’t see much fightin’ out here. There’s one bridge into the town an’ the rest just floats in the lake. Still, we should wait til dark. ‘S all out in the open and there’s lotsa eyes, ‘n they might have some archers.”

 

Bolg is not entirely impressed by their findings but he is pleased that they have at least not lost sight of their quarry. He grunts and nods, then turns his gaze back to the lake. They shuffle off wordlessly to join the others setting up their temporary camp; this was the closest that Bolg would ever get to actually complimenting his troops for not screwing up their jobs and they should be grateful of it.

 

“We move when the moon is high,” he says, “They will not stay there long, we will catch them on the road at the other end of the lake.”

 

There is a chorus of acknowledgment, followed by arguing and heavy cursing over which one of them has to go and hunt some meat while they can. Bolg has a difficult time not decapitating the entire lot of them, and it is only the need for numbers that keeps his mace in check. The wargs turn and vanish into the trees to find their own meal. They will return on their own, he knows, just as eager for the taste of dwarf blood as he is. They would descend on them like the very fires of Mordor, destroying everything in their path.

 

They would claim that mountain, and everything that lay within it, for their Master.

  
_We are coming for you Oakenshield._

 

-

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of people were waiting for Kili's confrontation with Thranduil, but don't worry. It is coming in the next chapter. I hope you aren't too disappointed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili has a confrontation with Thranduil, who presents him with an offer. Meanwhile, Bard returns home after securing weapons for his guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that, it didn't take me a month to get a new chapter out. I'm pretty proud of myself.
> 
> A big thanks to December_Daughter for catching a typo in the last chapter. Please feel free to let me know if you see any little mistakes I have made. I try my best to proofread but it seems like you can never catch everything.

 

_

 

Thranduil, immortal Elvenking of Mirkwood, is the very epitome of fury.  He moves with the kind of quick precision that no earthbound creature should possess, crowding into Kili’s personal space in the blink of an eye. One hand lashes out, grabbing the dwarf by the throat and pushing him down into the bed. Kili, already dizzy from pain and poison, sputters and trembles under strong elegant fingers.

 

“Would anyone care if I choked the life out of you?” the elf snarls at him, “Would the world be pained for the loss of one filthy dwarf?”

 

Wild eyed and panicking, Kili can only stare back at him and wheeze pathetically. Was this really happening? Was Thranduil just going to choke him to death right there and then? His hands go to the elf’s wrists in a feeble attempt to free himself, but he is too weak from his injuries to offer any kind of resistance.

 

The grip loosens fractionally, though it most certainly has nothing to do with Kili’s pathetic defenses; Thranduil narrows his eyes and tilts his head down so they are near face to face. “Perhaps I should just let fate run it’s course and let you fall into shadows? Have you ever seen what happens to someone who suffers a Morgul wound for too long? It eats you away from the inside, shredding every muscle, pulverizing every bone. It will burn the air from your lungs and freeze the blood in your veins. And then, when you are ready to die, your withered, cursed husk will carry on without you. It is the worst kind of death.”

 

And then, just as quickly, Thranduil releases him and slides away gracefully. Kili’s hands fly to his throat as if to ensure that it was still in tact; he does his best not to start hyperventilating but his lungs are in overdrive and his nerves are frayed.

 

“I want to make it perfectly clear to you that I am choosing to show mercy,” he continues as if he hadn’t just mauled the young dwarf, snatching up a clean linen from the bedside table to wipe his hands, “I would not wish the kind of suffering you would experience on even my most steadfast enemy. But always remember that you will live because I allow you to.”

 

Thranduil paces beside the bed, though he never drops eye contact with Kili. He is ensnared by that intense gaze, unable to  look away even though he desperately wants to; he is a butterfly beneath glass, wings tattered and pinned in place. Helpless.

 

“You have his bearing,” the elf says suddenly, his head cocked in a studious tilt, “What are you to him?”

 

Kili could only assume that he was talking about Thorin, but it seems ridiculous to him that anyone could draw a comparison between them. His features were softer than Thorin’s - delicate, as people were so fond of reminding him - made worse by his utter inability to grow a proper beard. Kili was sturdy and well muscled as all dwarves were, but next to his uncle and even his brother he is almost lean. Thorin was unflinching before his enemies and Kili … well, Kili was far less so, as evidenced in this very moment.

 

How could this elf make a connection between them when he had trouble doing so himself sometimes?

 

“Speak dwarf, I have no patience for games.”

 

He swallows thickly and manages to find his words. “I … he is my Uncle.”

 

“And what is your name?”

 

“Kili.”

 

“Tell me then Kili, nephew of Thorin Oakenshield, how is it your company escaped from my dungeons?”

 

He knew this was coming. Of course Thranduil would want to know how thirteen dwarves just up and walked out of their locked cells. Truthfully he was mostly fuzzy on the details of their actual escape, it had all happened so fast. One moment he had been sprawled on the floor of his cell, listening the the muted sounds of celebration filter from above them, then the next his brother’s stupid grinning face was on the other side of the bars as he unlocked the door.

 

_C’mon you fat lump, let’s go!_

 

_Fili? What’s going on?_

 

_No time brother, no time. Mister Baggins has come through again!_

 

And then they were off, down the halls and into the kitchens for their fateful barrel ride. The skills and courage of Bilbo Baggins continue to amaze him; he is not about to reveal the presence of the hobbit to Thranduil after he put himself at so much risk for their sakes.

 

“I don’t know the details of how or why or when,” he begins hesitantly, “It happened fast and there was not time to ask. And since I am now in your care I don’t have the opportunity to do so.”

 

Thranduil did not look impressed. “Did Thorin Oakenshield not see fit to include his own nephew in his scheming?”

 

“Our cells were not near one another. If he had been making plans I could not have heard them without someone shouting them to me.”

 

A single muscle twitches under Thranduil's eye. “How did he get the keys?”

 

“I don’t know,” Kili repeats, “Perhaps your guardsmen are not as sharp eyed as you elves would have us think. Perhaps one of my kin managed to snag them while yours were distracted by festivals and wine.”

 

“Or _dwarves_.” Thranduil once again immerses himself in Kili’s personal space, though this time he keeps his hands to himself. “Perhaps it was you, _Kili_ , who snuck the keys away while you plied my captain with conversation.”

 

So he was suspicious of Tauriel after all. Perhaps she had downplayed just how much trouble she was actually in, judging by the look on Thranduil’s face.

 

“Tauriel had no part in this, unwittingly or otherwise,” Kili insists, “I spoke with her, yes, but it was not a deception. Please do not take you anger out on her when she was only showing a stupid dwarf some undeserved pity.”

 

Thranduil narrows his eyes and tilts at him, “Now that is a strange thing, a dwarf to defend an elf so vehemently. Do you care for her?”

 

Kili blinks, brow furrowing as he wonders at the implications. Did he care for her? It was hard for him to not think positively about someone who had smiled when he spoke and seemed to genuinely want to know more about him. And while he was not certain how he felt about the alien aesthetics of elves - that incident in Rivendell has left him confused and embarrassed and he was certain that the others would rib him about it for the rest of his life - but _by Mahal_ does she ever have a lovely head of red hair. The things he wants _to do_ to that hair.

 

He does not want Thranduil to get the wrong idea though; even if there was a part of Kili that would have liked to know Tauriel better, the elf did not need to know that.

 

“Tauriel was nice to me when she didn’t have to be. I appreciated that,” he says carefully, ”Please believe me when I say that I did not take advantage of her good will. I did not know that my uncle had an escape plan until it was already happening. I swear it on my Fathers’ names.”

 

“You wish me to have faith when so far my only experiences with you have been trespassing and escape. That seems unreasonable, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

“There is nothing I can give you except my word.”

 

A slow, slick smile spreads across the elf’s face that makes Kili flinch.

 

“Ah, now that is entirely untrue. There is something you can do that will earn my goodwill, for you and your troublesome ilk. And possibly to repair my opinion of Tauriel.”

 

Kili shifts uneasily. “What would that be?”

 

“It is no secret what your uncle hopes to accomplish. I do not know how or why Thorin plans to slay a dragon such as Smaug with only a handful of dwarves, but you must see that it is an errand doomed to failure. I can only assume that he has found knowledge of some secretive way into the mountain, but then what, young Kili? Catch the beast off guard while it is napping? It takes more than a sharp sword to get through their scales.”

 

It sounds ludicrous when the Elvenking says it out loud, but even Kili cannot deny that he speaks a truth that they had been blind to. Yes, they had Bilbo Baggins to act as their burglar, but even if the hobbit did manage to sneak the Arkenstone out of Erebor without waking Smaug, the dragon was still going to be there. Kili now realizes that there was never any actual talk of killing the beast, no plan in place if Bilbo wakes it. He does not want to admit that maybe Thranduil was not wrong and it frustrates him to no end.

 

“I will take your silence to mean that you see my point. Perhaps you will be easier to reason with than Oakenshield. Do you know that I offered him a deal?”

 

He does remember Thorin coming back from his meeting with Thranduil. At the time his uncle had been shouting about turning the elf down, followed by a litany of masterful swearing. Thorin had not disclosed anything about the meeting though, so at the time none of them really knew just what had been offered.

 

“We knew,” he says, “But he did not say what you had spoken of.”

 

“I offered him my aid in retaking your mountain.”

 

Kili is sure that his wounds must be affecting his ears, because he could not have possibly heard what he thought just now. Thranduil offering them support? This was the elf that had turned his back on the suffering of Erebor and Dale while they burned to ash in dragon’s fire.

 

“You abandoned us when we needed your help the most,” Kili sneers, “My uncle would never accept your help.”

 

“It seems that is true. He refused my offer and left cursing me in that crude tongue of yours. I would have hoped that a few days in the dungeons to cool his head would have opened his eyes to the truth of things, but it seems that the stubbornness of Thorin Oakenshield cannot be contained by bars.”

 

Kili scowls up at the King. “Thorin would never trust someone who betrayed him so greatly as you. You say you would aid us to reclaim Erebor. At what price? All the gold in the mountain? Or maybe my uncle’s subservience?”

 

A startling bark of laughter escapes from Thranduil.

 

“I suspect that Thorin Oakenshield would bow to no one but himself, but that is not what I asked. All I asked of him was for the return of treasure that was denied me - a chest of white gems more beautiful than all the stars in the sky. Surely that is worth the price of an army - of regaining your home?”

 

Kili does not know what these gems are or why they would be so valuable, but he suspects that the cost of Thranduil’s aid was irrelevant; Thorin would likely have refused even if the elf was willing to hand over the keys to his own kingdom.

 

“This is where I come to you, Kili,” he continues, “Despite the fact that you have cast me a great insult by intruding into my lands with orcs at your back, I am willing to offer you my assistance.”

 

“You would still send aid?”

 

“It is clear that they will go to the mountain whether they are prepared or not. The likely outcome of this scenario is that they awaken the wroth of Smaug, who will then lay waste to all in the mountain’s shadow. There are the Men of Esgaroth on the Long Lake, whom my people trade with often. They will burn first, having had no say in their own fate. Then it will turn it’s greedy eyes towards the forest and my own people will be at risk. Do you understand, dwarf, the true foolishness of this quest you have taken? How many lives you unwittingly risk?”

 

Kili is angry. Thranduil insults his uncle and his people, but at the same time he speaks a truth he cannot deny. They had been short sighted in their quest, perhaps too hasty given the constraint of reaching their goal by Durin’s Day. But could he really believe what this elf had to say? Of course he can never trust him, not with the history between this king and his uncle.

 

“What would you have me do?” he asks cautiously.

 

“I would have you dissuade him from this course of action. If he is not taken by the greed and sickness of his grandfather before him, if he truly seeks to reclaim a home for his people, then I would have you tell him that the armies of Mirkwood will support his efforts. A united front against the dragon.”

 

Kili frowns and looks down at his hands. “And if I refuse?”

 

He can hear the smile in his words and it makes him feel a little bit sick. “Then you will remain here, until such a time as someone sees fit to barter for your freedom. I have closed the doors to this realm, no one will enter or leave without my permission until this threat passes.”

 

So his options were to convince his uncle to accept help from Thranduil or to stay in Mirkwood indefinitely as a prisoner. Neither sound particularly appealing to him, though he suspects he should not be making any decisions in his current state of mind. He is finding it difficult to keep his focus through pain and poison, and the longer he exchanges hostilities the more he just wants to lie down and go to sleep.

 

“I will allow you time to consider my offer, though I suspect that your company has little to spare,” he moves away from the bed, and then bellows with such volume that Kili thinks could burst someone’s eardrums, “TAURIEL!”

 

The door opens immediately, and the she-elf is at Thranduil’s side. Her face betrays no hint of emotion as she salutes her king; Thranduil glances at her as if her presence is a nuisance.

 

“I have yet to decide whether I believe the dwarf’s claim about your involvement in the escape attempt. He bids me to take him at his word that it was mere conversation, though I am not convinced of his sincerity.”

 

“My Lord, I-”

 

Thranduil holds up one hand and her mouth snaps shut.

 

“Until such time that I can be assured of young Kili’s intentions, I am assigning you to be his personal guard while he is our guest.”

 

She is outraged and makes no attempt to hide it. “I cannot spend time babysitting this dwarf while there are still orcs running unchecked though our borders! We must do -”

 

He wheels on her, that fury once more returning to his eyes and his words. “DO NOT tell _me_ what must be done, captain. I am not concerned with orcs, I am concerned with keeping greedy, foolish dwarves from reigning dragonfire down on all of our heads. If you wish to retain your rank and your favour then you will make amends for your negligence by watching him like a hawk.”

 

Tauriel grits her teeth and bows her head. It is almost painful to witness and he would have given anything at that moment to not be the reason for it.

 

“Now go, tell the healers to begin their work. It would be … cruel to allow him to suffer any longer than he already has.”

 

There is a tiny sound that escapes her throat before she turns and storms away in a flurry of glorious red hair and rage; Kili thinks that it’s a small piece of her barely contained anger. For his part, Thranduil looks entirely nonplussed. He regards Kili with a smug grin.

 

“Consider your options carefully, dwarf. It would be a shame to see everything your uncle wished for to fall to ashes simply because he is unable to see reason. And I would hate to have to punish Tauriel any further. We will speak again when you have chosen.”

 

He leaves, much less spectacularly than Tauriel. The door slides shut behind him, and Kili finds himself alone for the first time since they had set out from Ered Luin. He settles back into the too large bed, his body deflating with exhaustion. What was he supposed to do? There was no way he could betray his uncle - no matter how the elf would try to spin things it would feel like nothing less - but he did not want to waste away in the forest when he could be doing something to help them. Once more he desperately wishes that Fili were there to guide him. What would his brother do? Would he refuse? Would he see the logic in Thranduil’s words? But Fili was not there, and for the first time in his life Kili would have to decide something on his own.

 

His eyes drift shut, heavy with the pull of sleep. Maybe once he rests things will make sense again. Maybe he will wake up and this will have all been some terrible dream, and when he tells his brother about it they will have a good long laugh.

 

_

 

The sun has long set when Bard finally begins to make his way back home.

 

It takes far longer than he likes to secure items that the dwarves will be happy with, and even now he's not so sure they won't throw them back at him. They want steel, that much they impressed, and will not settle for anything poorer. It would have been easier for him to gather some of the makeshift weaponry that most of the town had to resort to, so much easier, but doing so would likely blow up in his face.

 

“Dwarves,” he curses as he jumps across a narrow canal.

 

Bard has a lot of regrets in his life, and agreeing to sneak that pack of runts into Laketown was now riding high on that list. Of course he did not think about the possible long term consequences of his snap decision, his mind only on the gold they were offering and what he could do with it. Bain and Tilda needed new clothes. The roof was in desperate need of patching. They were raising the prices at the market again and he thought about all of those elderly people who couldn’t afford it any more. If he spreads it around enough in just the right way, then maybe they will all survive another couple of months. He certainly did not think his acceptance of payment was going to lead to him to having to make some last minute deals down at the lower piers and owing at least six people favours.

 

It was done though. It’s amazing how people can be motivated to produce a dozen illegal arms in less than a few hours at such short notice. They would be delivered before sunrise, in that ten minute window when the watchdogs changed shifts in front of his house. A small raft, three barrels at the front and a roughspun tarp over a locked long box would be waiting.

 

And once they had their weapons, well, the dwarves would be on their way and Bard will never have to see them again. It will be a temporary blip in their lives that they will one day look back upon and laugh about.

 

Do you remember when those dwarves crawled out of our toilet? Priceless.

 

He rounds a corner, ducking into an alley that was in need of maintenance and repair. It is in that moment that he realizes he is not alone and he tenses mid step. Three men block his path, donning the unmistakable armour of the Laketown Guard. One of them steps forward and once again Bard curses the existence of dwarves.

 

“Bard.”

 

“Braga.”

 

Bard would know his face anywhere. The Captain of the Guard eyes him up and down, squinting suspiciously in the dark. Once upon a time, when Bard had been younger and just a little naive to the ways of things, they had served in the Guard together. They had been fast friends then and a force to be reckoned with, and to him it seemed almost a lifetime ago.

 

“Haven’t you better things to do with your time, Braga?” he asks, “It’s late, shouldn’t you be defending your Master against the pleas of the homeless?”

 

Braga chuckles and crosses his arms over his chest. “Always quick with an insult, aren’t you? Some things never change.”

 

“No. They don’t.”

 

The other two guardsmen shuffle uneasily behind their Captain, hands resting on the hilts of their swords, and Bard recognizes the situation for what it is; they are here to arrest him. Or perhaps something more violent, if he resists. Had they followed him? No, they couldn’t have, not to be waiting so casually for him. Had they been tipped off then? Was there a leak in the network? Its not hard to imagine someone falling to the lure of coin and favour from the Master.

 

He sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair. “Is this really necessary?”

 

“It wouldn’t be if you would just stop stirring up trouble, Bard.”

 

“Trouble?” he can’t help but laugh, “If you call helping the people of this city trouble, then I will never stop doing so. Someone has to ensure that stomachs are filled and children are kept warm at night, and it surely is not going to be The Master or any of his sniveling pets.”

 

“He’s irritated by your contempt for his authority and he won’t stand for it. You’re only doing a disservice to yourself and the people in the long run.”

 

“And how is that?”

 

Braga looks annoyed, but Bard also catches a glimpse of concern in his eyes; something of a man he used to know. “Because now they aren’t going to have you around to defend them anymore.”

 

“You’re going to arrest me then, are you? On what grounds?”

 

“How about possession of banned steel, eh?” one of the grunts pipes up, “How’s smuggling in weapons supposed to help the people, bargeman?”

 

Shit.

 

“Hard to arrest someone on charges without any evidence,” Bard replies, holding his arms out to show just how unarmed he was.

 

“We have the evidence already,” Braga’s face is grim, “We have intercepted the shipment, and we have a  witness account that names you in purchasing these items.”

 

So someone had betrayed him after all. Bard shifts on his feet, taking a slight step backwards. He could run, maybe lose them in the canals. But if he evaded them, they would go to the house. To the kids. He would not risk the lives of his children over this.

 

“You are under arrest Bard. I’m sorry.”

 

It happens quickly and Bard feels like the world’s biggest fool. They had been waiting for him. They knew he was coming this way. And Braga had always known just how to keep him distracted. He doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it’s too late. Bard turns towards the sound, and catches sight of the end of a club just before it connects with the side of his skull. He drops like a sack of stones, stunned by pain and surprise. His attacker stoops down and laughs as he slides a sack over his head.

  
He hears the muffled sounds of Braga ordering the men. Someone grabs him by the arms to lift him up; he wants to struggle, but his mind can’t make his body work. As they drag him away into the night he thinks of his children as the world slides away into blackness.

 

_

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigrid is being run ragged by her house guests and has a talk with Fili about the importance of being the oldest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you enjoy sibling feels? Have a chapter full of them.
> 
> It may take some time before the next chapter gets done, I have a project at work that needs a lot of attention for the next few weeks. I will try my best not to take too long though.

 

_

 

The house is still full of noise and energy when Sigrid returns from her tasks.

 

She is immediately swept up by the older dwarf who acts as the group’s healer - she thinks his name is Oin or similar, but there are so many dwarves it was difficult to try and remember them all in a small amount of time - and spends what seems like hours making salves and brewing teas and preparing meals. She makes sure they have all gotten warm dry clothes and that everyone has somewhere to rest. Bain and Tilda do their best to help her out, carrying and fetching and taking orders, but Sigrid still feels as though she is being pulled in a thousand different directions.

 

What’s the measurement for this herb again lass?

 

Would ya fetch me another mug of that tea?

 

Can I trouble you for another plate of cheese?

 

Where is your father?

 

When is your father returning?

 

Where is he?

 

The worst part was that Sigrid had no idea where her father was or when he would be back, and every time that scary dwarf would ask her all she could do was shake her head and apologize. As the hours crawl along it gets more difficult to evade the questioning.

 

After sending Tilda off with a tray full of the last of their bread and butter, she nabs her brother by the elbow.

 

“I need a few moments of quiet or I am going to go mad,” she says to him solemnly, “Can you watch after Tilly for a few minutes?”

 

Bain himself looks rather rundown and Sigrid will insist after she collects herself that her younger siblings go to bed. Tilda should be asleep already but she’s so enraptured by their guests that Sigrid knows it’s going to be a struggle to get her settled.

 

“Yeah, of course. Do you think Da will be back soon? He’s been gone a while now.”

 

“I hope so. I don’t know how much longer I can take a house full of dwarves all by myself.”

 

He looks offended. “Oi, you aren’t by yourself here! Tilly and I have been helping you, haven’t we?”

 

In truth she knows that Bain has done just as much work as she has today. He’d gone with her on her errands as their father had asked, insisting on carrying everything for her even though he knew she was perfectly capable. A proper young man he was becoming, and one day soon he wouldn’t need her to watch after him or send him to bed and it made her a little bit sad.

 

“That you have, little brother. Sometimes I forget how fast you’re growing up.”

 

Now he looks embarrassed and pulls away from her as his cheeks redden a little. Sigrid can’t help the smile that tugs at her lips.

 

“Go on then, go have your break,” he says as he turns his attention to a mountainous pile of dishes that has sprung up in the past few hours, “I’ll get a start on this for you.”

 

“Thank you Bain,” she ruffles his hair, which she knows annoys him greatly, and quietly retreats from the room.

 

The night air is bracing against her skin when she slips outside, a chilled breeze coming in from the lake. The first flakes of winter snow have begun to fall over Laketown, tiny pinpoints of ice that melt on her face and arms. She should really go back to get a shawl at least but she can’t quite make herself go back into the house, not when she has finally made an escape.

 

They have a small balcony that runs the length of the back of their house overlooking an alleyway canal, though if Sigrid were being honest she would barely classify it as more than a slightly elongated wooden ledge. It’s primary function is to hang laundry from in the warmer months and extra storage space when they need it. Sometimes she uses it to escape the house when their father is in a poor mood or her siblings are being too rowdy and will not listen to her, though that is a rare occurrence these days. They all know not to bother her if she’s out there; it’s her spot and they respect her need for privacy.

 

So Sigrid is startled, and a little annoyed, to find that she is not alone. One of the dwarves huddles at the end of the balcony, knees drawn to his chest and head in hands. All she can really make out of him in the darkness is a thick mass of braided blond hair that makes her think of the lions in Tilda’s old picture books. He doesn’t seem to notice her at first, so she stands in the cold for several awkward moments before gently clearing her throat.

 

His head snaps up immediately, a look of panic on his face that she was definitely not expecting. He blinks rapidly for a moment before casting his eyes down at his knees. Her annoyance melts away into something that was not quite guilt but close enough to make her feel a little bad.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t realize anyone had come out here.”

 

“No, no,” he replies quickly, “This is your home and we’ve intruded on you far too much. I will go back-”

 

“No, that’s okay,” she takes a turn to interrupt, “I mean, if you don’t mind, we can both sit here quietly. Just don’t ask me for tea or food, I am on a break for at least five minutes.”

 

She sits a comfortable distance from him, stretching her legs so they hang over the edge of the balcony at the knees. Back pressed against the old wood of the house, she takes in a long breath of the cool evening air and holds it in her lungs. Though she is uncomfortable and cold, Sigrid begins to feel the stress of the day slide away from her. It is quiet out here, the sounds of dwarves muffled and far away, and to her it was almost perfect.

 

Her gaze slides over to her companion. The dwarf - she does not know his name but she recalls that he seems to be very close with the scary one - is making a point of not looking directly at her. He is picking at a loose thread ot the cuff of his borrowed shirt, staring down at it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. One of his legs bounces up and down in a slight but steady rhythm.

 

Really she should just leave well enough alone, but even in her place of solitude she cannot turn off her urge to look after others.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” she begins softly,  “There are a lot of you to try and remember.”

 

For  moment she thinks he might just ignore her completely. His hands still against his sleeve though, and he does turn to look at her after a moment.

 

“Fili, at your service,” he nods deeply, a strange approximation of a bow, “You’re Sigrid, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I don’t know if anyone’s thanked you properly for every thing you’ve done. Thank you, for putting up with us.”

 

Many of his fellows had actually expressed quite a bit of gratitude towards her and her siblings, particularly Mister Baggins and the dwarves who had fallen ill. They were a loud, boisterous bunch, but she recognized that they did appreciate the hospitality, even if some of them didn’t outright show it.

 

“I will admit that you lot are a bit of a handful, especially since you just popped up out of the toilet without so much as a warning.”

 

“Not one of our finer moments, I will admit.”

 

Now that he is looking directly at her she can see that something is not quite right with him. He is pale and drawn, sweat beading around his hairline despite the chill in the air. Though his fingers no longer work at his clothes they were twitching with the need to. His breathing is somewhat erratic, and it’s obvious that he’s trying to cover it up with deep deliberate breaths.

 

“Are you feeling well?” she asks, tentatively shifting towards him to try and get a closer look, “I know I said I wouldn’t bring you anything but I can get you some tea if you like. Or I can call for Master Oin -”

 

“NO!” he snaps suddenly, “No, I don’t need anything. I’m fine.”

 

Sigrid has heard of the legendary stubbornness of dwarves, but she never thought that she would have to put up with so much of it all at once. She sighs and makes no effort to be subtle about getting into his personal space. Fili sputters and tries to move away when she presses the back of her hand to his forehead, but there is no where for him to escape on the tiny balcony.

 

“You are not fine Master Fili, you are sweating and pale.”

 

Something changes in his face and he all at once looks absolutely miserable. “Please, it’s fine. I … I sometimes get overwhelmed by my own anxieties. It will pass, it always does. I just needed some quiet.”

 

Sigrid pulls away, giving him space and feeling like an absolute tit.

 

“Forgive me, I should not have been so presumptuous.”

 

“It’s all right,” she thinks he is trying to be reassuring but it doesn’t quite sound right, “It’s such a stupid thing. Embarrassing really. "

 

"There is nothing to be embarrassed about,” Sigrid replies softly, “Everyone gets overwhelmed sometimes. Besides, I imagine you lot must have had a pretty stressful day, seeing as how it ended up with you crawling out of the plumbing.”

 

“Aye, that we have.”

 

The dwarves are incredibly tight lipped about why they are actually here. The “Official Story”, as told to her by Oin, was that they were simple merchants who had fallen on misfortune while travelling from the Blue Mountains to visit their kin in the Iron Hills. Sigrid did not believe a word of it though. What kind of simple merchants had to be smuggled into the town and then demanded steel forged weaponry? Her father could not have believed that either, but she knew he would always turn a blind eye to such things when money they could put to good use was involved. She had seen dwarves before in Laketown, though very scarcely and not since Tilda was a babe in arms. Traders, her father had explained to her, from the very place Fili and his kin claim to be travelling to. But they had no need to sneak in then, their gold and wares more than welcome in the struggling community.

 

So why were they so secretive now?

 

She had made a few attempts to get information out of the friendlier dwarves, and Mister Baggins the halfling, but whenever it seemed as though they might let something slip they would clam up and glance over at the Angry Dwarf; Sigrid still didn’t know his name and was completely afraid to ask. Fili was unlikely to tell her anything either. She has seen him in deep conversation with Angry Dwarf earlier and would probably fear his wrath just as the others did. It would also be unnecessarily cruel to try and question him while he was still upset.

 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen your folk in Laketown,” she comments instead, hoping the casual conversation might soothe his nerves, “Not since I was about ten years old.”

 

“Oh? And how old are you now?”

 

“Seventeen.”

 

He looks surprised. “Only seventeen? You are so young.”

 

Sigrid feels as though she should be offended. “I’m not a child, Master Dwarf. Most girls my age are married by now or looking too.”

 

“I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect. It’s just that when I was seventeen I could barely put a shirt on correctly let alone look after a houseful of guests. Sometimes I forget that Men grow up so much faster than dwarves.”

 

“And how old are you then?”

 

“Eighty two.”

 

She is fairly certain the strange feeling in her face just then was her jaw unhinging. “Eighty two? You cannot be serious.”

 

Fili grinned at her and she knew that he was completely serious. It was known that dwarves were a long lived people. Perhaps not compared to the elves, who lived forever unless struck down in battle, but more than enough for the life of a human to seem like the blink of an eye. Looking at him now it was strange to think he had already lived longer than most of her kin did. His face seems youthful - handsome too, all smiles and dimples  - his eyes bright and kind. Were they a comparable age, she wondered. Had this eighty year old only just begun his life?

 

“Why are you not then?” he asks, and Sigrid has no idea what he means.

 

She blinks at him. “Why am I not what?”

 

“Married,” he elaborates, “Or are you looking?”

 

“Oh. Well, it’s complicated. I don’t have much time for that kind of thing right now, I have my siblings to look after and all.”

 

His smile fades and Sigrid thinks she may have inadvertently struck a nerve when his gaze turns out over the town.

 

“Tell me about them.”

 

Fili won’t look at her, and he goes back to picking the threads at his cuff. At this rate she thinks he was have the sleeve unravelled to the elbow by morning.

 

“Not much to tell, really,” she says, though that is not true; she can talk about her family all day if she wants to, she’s just certain no one would want her to, “Mam died a little after Tilly was born. Caught a fever that had been going through the city and was too weak from the birthing to recover. Da was … it was rough for a while. Took it really hard.”

 

That was perhaps putting it mildly, but Sigrid thinks that those details are much too private for public conversation.

 

“I was barely 9 then, but with a four year old brother and a new baby I had to grow up and take over where she left off. I might be their big sister, but sometimes I feel like their mother too. And they’re a right handful sometimes, you know? Bain’s always running after Da, trying to grow up faster than he should. And Tilda. You wouldn’t think it to look at her but she’s got a trouble making streak in her a mile wide.”

 

“That’s a lot of responsibility to take on for someone so young. You’re a good sister.”

 

“It’s a special responsibility, being the oldest. You look out for your brothers and sisters, no matter what. You make them eat their greens and bandage their scrapes and you tell them everything you know about the world. Sometimes I wish …” she bites her lip and tries to organize her thoughts into something coherent, “Sometimes I wish that Mam was here to tell me what to do. It’s not fair for them, having this sister-mother hybrid. Bain doesn’t remember her clearly and Tilda never knew her, so I have to fill in the blanks and it’s hard. But I would do it again, a thousand times over if I needed to.”

 

Beside her, Fili lets out a long shuddery breath and seems to shrink into himself. There is that nerve again.

 

“I left him behind.”

 

He says it so quietly she’s not sure if he’s said anything at all. But then he actually looks at her and there is such sadness in his eyes that her breath catches in her throat. She wants to ask who he’s means, but she suspects there is a line here she shouldn’t cross. These are _his_ private details. They sit quietly for a long time before he speaks again.

 

“I left my little brother behind.”

 

Oh.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Sigrid does not know what to say beyond offering a sympathy. She doesn’t know the details and he is unlikely to give them, though given how incredibly torn he looks right now she thinks that he clearly wants to talk about it. She can only speculate as to what may have happened, but whatever the circumstances were she expects that it was not easy for him. The idea of having to abandon a sibling is a terrible one to her, and she feels his sorrow at this as if it were her own.

 

‘What is his name?”

 

“Kili.”

 

She smiles softly; these dwarven naming conventions are really quite cute. “Tell me about Kili.”

 

“He is completely reckless and stupid,” he says solemnly, though there is a hint of a grin on his face, “And he will freely tell you that those are some of his best qualities, though that’s not true. He always tries to do his best, trying to live up to impossible expectations when others dismiss him. Kili will follow you to the end of the earth and throw himself off of it if you ask him too.”

 

To his credit, Fili’s voice only cracks a couple of times. Sigrid thinks that it might have been cruel to ask about him now, given his anxiety over the situation. She places a hand gently on his shoulder.

 

“It sounds as though he is not the kind to be left so easily. Perhaps he will find his way back to you sooner than you think. You dwarves are such a stubborn lot after all, he’ll not be content to be left behind while his brother travels without him. ”

 

A tiny huff of laughter escapes him, and Sigrid is glad for it; she hates to see anyone so sad.

 

“What you said about being the oldest, I understand very well. Our father died when we were very young too, and I made a promise that I would always look after Kili. I was his big brother and I was going to fight for him no matter what.”

 

“You are a good brother,” she echoes his earlier sentiments.

 

“Not so good as I should be,” he replies darkly, “I keep thinking I should go back for him. It was a mistake for us to leave him there,the elves will not -”

 

His mouth snaps shut as he realizes that he has probably said too much. Sigrid gently slides her hand from his shoulder and purses her lips. Elves, he had said. They must have come through Mirkwood. Maybe they had trouble with the wood elves then. Curiosity threatens to bubble over, but she knew it was not her place to ask.

 

“I won’t pry about what happened. You all clearly have something important going on, something that is none of our concern at least. Though you may want to work on your cover story, this travelling merchants nonsense is a bit insulting to our intelligence.”

 

Again he looks torn, sneaking a few furtive glances back at the doorway to ensure that no one had overheard his slip up.

 

“I would tell you if I could Sigrid - I wish I could tell you - but understand that my uncle would flay me alive.”

 

So Angry Dwarf was his uncle then. He did seem like the sort who might be prone to flaying someone who spoke behind his back.

 

“It’s alright Fili.”

 

“It’s not alright,” his voice is so quiet she has to strain to hear him properly, “Kili went and got himself into trouble and I couldn’t save him. Uncle will not allow me to go back for him, but I can’t help but think to. I could just slip away in the night, go and get him back myself. I would do it.”

 

She wants to offer him some advice or support, but she doesn’t know how. A great part of her, so moved by his sadness and resolve, wants to help him with this escape plan of his. It would be easy to sneak him out of the house, send him off with his own little stash of supplies to help him on the way. There is an old wood axe propped out the back of the house he can take if he isn’t going to be particular about quality. A sibling should not have to suffer the loss of another if there is something that can be done. Still, she knows the way to Mirkwood is dangerous these days. Laketown’s own hunters won’t even venture into the treelines anymore for fear of dark magics and the whispers of monsters. It would be foolish for him to set off on his own, and his uncle would be furious.

 

Sigrid is torn.

 

The sound of shattering pottery comes from inside the house, echoing in their quiet night. She can’t help but frown, knowing that their time here was done. Fili goes quiet again, staring out over the city with a contemplative look on his face. A long, drawn sigh passes over her lips.

 

“I should go back inside,” she says with reluctance, “Before we no longer have any dishes. When you are ready to come inside I’ll make you some tea. It wouldn’t do you good to catch cold sitting out here.”

 

She takes her time to stand, stretching her arms wide over her head; as much as she has enjoyed her time talking with the dwarf, the balcony is not the most comfortable place to sit for any period of time. As she turns to walk away, he speaks up.

 

“Sigrid?”

 

There is a smile on his face when she meets his eyes, genuine and warm in all the ways that make her feel a little less cold in the night air.

 

 _Oh no, he’s handsome_ , she can’t help but think as her own smile widens just a little bit.

 

“Yes?” she asks, putting that thought out of her head as quickly as possible.

 

“Thank you.”

 

She quirks an eyebrow at him. “I haven’t done anything.”

 

“You’ve done a lot. Not most would sit with a moody dwarf and listen to his whining with such good will. I … I really appreciate it. So thank you.”

 

Her mouth opens to say something, but Tilda is suddenly poking her head out of the door and screaming.

 

“SIGRID! BAIN DID IT!”

 

“I DID NOT!” their brother’s voice answers immediately, just as loud, followed by the laughter of dwarves.

 

Sigrid deflates on her feet, sagging for a moment against the wall of the house. Fili chuckles quietly and she scowls at him for a moment before turning her attention to her young sister.

 

“Tilda, back in the house. It’s too cold for you to be out here without a coat on.”

 

“You don’t have a coat on,” she says accusingly before stepping back inside.

 

“I’m bigger than you, I can handle the cold,” she replies sharply as she follows her in, “Now what is going on in here?”

 

The two youngest children try and talk over each other, pinning blame on the other for who actually knocked over a pile of dishes that was now in shards all over the kitchen floor. She was not in the mood to actually care which of them had done it and instead snatches up the broom from the corner.

 

“Both of you, go to bed. Now.”

 

“But Sig -”

 

“No buts Tilly, it is far past your bedtime, dwarves or not. Bain, put her to bed.”

 

The boy frowns and looks at the floor.

 

“Bain.”

 

“I wanted to wait up for Da,” he says quietly, poking at a large fragment of a plate with his foot.

 

“Me too, me too,” Tilda chimes in; she seems to have forgotten her rivalry with Bain over the dish fiasco because she grabs her brother’s arm and clings to it tightly. “We want to wait for Da.”

 

_Being the oldest is a special responsibility._

 

Sigrid puts the broom back and then gathers her two siblings into her arms. Bain makes a small noise of protest - possibly out of embarrassment because dwarves are probably watching them - but quickly relaxes against her shoulder. Tilda puts her little arms around her neck, hands grasping at the back of her dress.

 

“Da will be back soon,” she whispers to them quietly, words for them only, “Don’t you worry about it.”

 

“He’s been gone a long time.”

 

“I know.”

 

In truth she is worried herself, but she has been doing her best to push that down and put on a responsible face in front of her siblings and these dwarves. Sigrid did not let her worries get the better of her, not when there are people who need her to be strong and have all of the answers.

 

Pulling back from the embrace, Sigrid gently cups both of them by the cheek. They look exhausted but are desperately trying not to seem so; it makes her happy for some strange reason.

 

“Da would have my guts for garters if he came home and saw the two of you awake at this hour. Especially you Tilly,” she says softly, “I know it’s hard to wait for him sometimes, Valar know we have done a lot of waiting in our lives. But he will be home, I promise you.”

 

Tilda pouts and Bain nods slowly.

 

“Please, for me, go and get your sleep.”

 

It ends with Bain scooping Tilda over his shoulder, the girl still half heartedly protesting through her yawns, and carrying her off to her bed. Some of the dwarves bid them sweet dreams as they pass. They had been suspiciously quiet during that little heart to heart, and she can’t help but wonder how much of it they had heard.

 

I’ll have to find them places to sleep, she thinks as she begins to sweep up the broken dishes. There aren’t all that many broken ones she begins to realize; it seems like only a few. Peering into the cupboards, she finds most of their dishes immaculately clean and intact. It is confusing, as the sheer amount of work to be done when she had stepped outside would have taken her an hour at least.

 

As she considers the logistics of this, Bilbo Baggins the halfling appears in front of her with a dustpan.

 

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, startling her out of her own thoughts, “We helped out with the dishes, but little Tilda insisted on doing her part and couldn’t quite carry what she thought she could.”

 

“Ah, Mister Baggins, I didn’t see you there. It’s alright, a few dishes broken is not the end of the world. It happens often, actually. Children will be children.”

 

He offers her a smile and companionable silence as she makes quick work of the mess. She is tired herself, but knows that it will be some time before she can go to sleep, if at all. Unlike the other two, she can and will wait up for their father whether he likes it or not. In the meantime, she busies herself finding extra blankets and clearing floorspace for their guests to sleep, trying desperately not to think about the growing knot of worry in her stomach.

 

_Where are you Da?_

  
  
_  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is impatient and Bilbo doesn't know how to make him see reason. Where is Bard? Who knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's certainly been a while.
> 
> So there was some life stuff that happened, and I lost a lot of my inspiration to write, but after seeing BOTFA my interest in continuing this has been renewed. This was already way off course in terms of DOS cannon and will continue to disregard BOTFA. So if anyone still cares about this fic, I'm so sorry for the wait, but more chapters are coming. This one is a bit short, but it's a bridge for me to get back on course.
> 
> I'll also be going back and fixing up a few grammatical errors and things I have noticed when I went back and reread earlier chapters.
> 
> Please enjoy.

Bilbo awakens to the sounds of footsteps on creaking floorboards.

 

For long moments he tries to ignore it, tries to will himself back into sleep. But a minute becomes several, and with each that passes he finds himself unable to do so. Some unintelligible sounds escape him as he hauls himself to a sitting position; he rubs the crust from his eyes and makes a face at the taste in his mouth. The first grey lights of morning filter into the house through curtained windows, highlighting the shapes of snoring dwarves all around him. Young Sigrid is curled up at one of the windows, passed out with her head pillowed in her arms and a heavy shawl around her shoulders. She's waited up all night after her father, but there is still no sign of Bard it seems.

 

Thorin is pacing by the door and it’s clear that he has not slept. There are dark circles under his eyes and a scowl on his lips and Bilbo cannot think that anything good is going to come from this. He has also been waiting for the Man’s return, though he doubts that the dwarf has any concern for his late arrival beyond how this will hold them up.

 

The hobbit pulls himself to his feet, ignoring the ache in his back from sleeping on the floor - he will not complain, not after Bard and his family had put them up -  and carefully steps around his companions as to not wake them. It is perhaps not a wise thing to approach the King Under the Mountain when he is clearly in a mood, but Bilbo thinks he needs to risk it.

 

“Thorin.”

 

He pauses mid step, glancing at the hobbit from the corner of his eye. The dwarf is wary, sizing up his intent like a feral dog. Bilbo has a mind to take offense to this - he is not some stranger, and it bothers him to think Thorin would be suspicious of him in any capacity - but he is unable to manifest this in any meaningful way.

 

“Master Baggins.”

 

His tone is icy and Bilbo just barely keeps himself from flinching.

 

“Thorin,” he begins again, fingers twitching at his side, “You haven’t slept.”

 

“What of it?”

 

“You can’t go for so long without rest, don’t forget that it was not so long ago that you were injured.”

 

Thorin fully turns to glare at him. “And who are you to say such things? _My nursemaid_? I am perfectly well.”

 

_No, you are not._

 

He does not say this aloud of course.

 

“It won’t help our cause for you to collapse halfway up the mountain from exhaustion. Please, even just for an hour, take some rest.”

 

The dwarf grumbles and turns his head away sharply.

 

“I have no time for rest, not when the bargeman has kept us waiting for so long. The sun is rising, we should be moving.”

 

So he means to keep to his word on that. A small part of him had hoped this particular threat to just been hot air, but he should have known this will not be the case.

 

“We should wait for Bard.”

 

“I will not wait on him any longer,” Thorin snaps; Bilbo glances behind him and sees a few of the others stirring at this, “He has already proven himself unreliable.”

 

“And what will we do without any weapons? There could still be orcs on our trail.”

 

“I will go to this Master of Laketown and I will have him give us what we need. He will see the sense of it, once I explain how reclaiming Erebor will benefit these Men.”

 

Oh no.

 

“Thorin, please, think about this for a moment. I just think if we wait -”

 

The dwarf crosses the space between them before Bilbo can blink, grabbing him by the front of his borrowed coat. Bilbo’s jaw works as if to say something, anything, but the words don’t come. Thorin’s eyes bore a hole straight through him, all his frustration focusing directly on the hobbit.

 

“Do not presume to think on my behalf, burglar,” he hisses as they come nearly nose to nose, “We cannot afford to delay here any longer. Durin’s Day is tomorrow and if we do not reach that mountain then all of this has been for folly.”

 

Tomorrow? Has it really come up on them so quickly?

 

“I’m sorry,” he squeaks, “I would never mean to presume on anyone’s behalf. I just don’t want us to rush into danger because we’ve been too hasty.”

 

“Haste is all that I have now,” Thorin spits back at him, “We cannot fail after we have come so far - I cannot fail. This is the one chance to take back Erebor and I will not lose it because we have been sitting around waiting on empty promises.”

 

“Let him go lad.”

 

Balin’s voice cuts through the early morning haze. Relief floods him as Thorin releases his grip, allowing the hobbit to stumble backwards out of arm’s reach. He moves to the older dwarf’s side, trying his best to seem much more calm and relaxed than his racing heart would suggest. He knows Thorin would never actually hurt him - and he knows this, he has faith that no matter what dark path his mind is going down that he will not lash out violently at his friends - but he can’t help but be startled by this aggressive behaviour.

 

Balin’s hand rests on his shoulder, a comforting weight that eases his nerves.

 

“No need for dramatics,” he says in that masterfully neutral tone of his, “We are all on the same side here.”

 

“Sometimes I wonder,” Thorin snaps, turning his back to them to stare out of window, “But I have no time to question loyalties. I will judge them by actions. Now, get everybody up, it’s time we moved on.”

 

Bilbo feel’s Balin’s hand twitch. “Would it not be safer to wait just a few hours more? We have folks who are ill.”

 

“If they cannot make the journey then they will remain behind,” Bilbo did not miss the regret in his voice, “It is simple. Now do as I say and get them up. I want to leave within the hour.”

 

Balin slumps, defeated, and moves to rouse those who have not already been woken by the sound of their argument. Bilbo shakes his head; he thought that the older dwarf would be able to make Thorin see things more clearly. But it seems even Balin was not immune to the ferocity of Thorin Oakenshield’s convictions. Bilbo watches helplessly as Balin begins to wake the others. They obediently rise, one after the other, quiet as he has ever seen them.

 

As the house begins to fill with the sounds of shuffling feet and the gathering of meager belongings, Sigrid jerks awake at the window. She bolts up right, eyes wide as an owl as her gaze darts around the room.

 

“Da?”

 

He nudges his way towards her side, touching her arm lightly. She jumps at the contact, unaware of him until that moment. “Master Baggins. Where … where is my father?”

 

“I’m sorry. He has not returned.”

 

The look of devastation on her face is heart breaking.

 

“How can he have not come back?” she says quietly, almost to herself, “He promised.”

 

Bilbo takes one of her hands into his own. Sigrid looks down at him, her eyes shiny with the threat of tears. He wants to say something to comfort her,but he’s not sure that he has the right words. He couldn’t convince Thorin to wait, what gives him the right to speak on this matter?

 

“I’m sure everything is fine,” it almost feels like a lie in his mouth, “He was probably just delayed, it can’t be easy to procure so many arms during the night. I’m sure he will return.”

 

Her brows furrow at him, a tiny frown on her lips. “If you’re so sure, why are you leaving?”

 

Her hand slips from his and Bilbo can’t help the feeling of shame that washes over him. Of course a few silly words from someone she had known for only a few hours would not bring her any kind of consolation. Her father is missing and it's their fault. Sigrid moves past him and he watches, nerves suddenly alight, as she approaches Thorin. The dwarf regards her with a harsh scowl, as if her presence offends him.

 

“You,” she stands before him, and to her credit her voice only trembles a little, “You are the leader of this company, are you not?”

 

All of the noise and motion in the room comes to an immediate freeze. Everyone stares, some slack jawed, at the audacity of this child.

 

“What of it?” he demands, arms crossing over his chest, "I have no words to waste with you, girl."

 

“We have done nothing but offer you and your folk hospitality. I spent hours tending to your sick, preparing your meals and fetching your provisions from the markets. My father went out into the night to find you weapons for whatever mad scheme you’re on and he has not returned. Are you so discourteous that you would just leave without so much as a thank you or a word of concern? Are all dwarves so petty as you?”

 

Bilbo thinks he might be having a heart attack by the thundering in his chest.  Never has he heard anyone talk to Thorin like that, not even Gandalf, and judging by the fuming anger on the dwarf’s face neither has he.

 

“How _dare_ you,” he seethes, taking a step towards her, “You do not know to whom you speak.”

 

Sigrid does not back down. “No, I don’t know, because all of these dwarves of yours are too afraid to say anything about who you are or why you are really here. Travelling merchants? You must think us thick as rocks to believe that.”

 

“Our business is our own, and I will not be chided by a daughter of Men. Your father went back on his promises and I can no longer wait for him. His fate is his own.”

 

“His fate is yours!” she snaps back at him, “If anything has happened to him it’s your fault!”

 

There is movement, and suddenly Fili interjects himself between Sigrid and Thorin. He looks frazzled, as if the tension in the air was going to unwind him.

 

“Enough,” the prince shouts, “There is no reason for this, uncle. We owe them more than gratitude, for all that we've put them through.”

 

“The lad is right, Thorin,” Balin adds cautiously, “The young lady is merely troubled by the absence of her father, I’m sure there is no disrespect meant.”

 

Thorin, of course, continues to look furious. “Stand aside Fili. This does not concern you.”

 

“Of course it concerns me. It concerns all of us. We’ve put them out and -”

 

“DO NOT DEFY ME,” he roars, and the entire house flinches.

 

Bilbo is actually terrified. He wants to slip away, to put on his ring and run all the way back to the shire. He could do it. No one was looking at him, it would be easy. His fingers slip into his pocket, grasping for his treasure.

 

_Do it._

 

“Sigrid?”

 

A tiny voice cuts through the silence. There isn’t a proper second story to the house, but there is a small loft area where the family sleeps. A rickety wooden staircase leads up to it, and at the top, hands wrapped around support beams and head between them, little Tilda is watching. Bilbo cannot see from his vantage, but the quiver in her voice gives away the certainty of tears that Sigrid has denied herself.

 

“Go back to bed Tilda,” her sister says quietly, hands gripping the fabric of her skirt, “Please.”

 

“Where is Da?” Tilda asks, sniffling.

 

“Tilda, go back to bed.”

 

The girl begins to cry. Sigrid turns her back to Thorin, towards the stairs.

 

“You want to leave so badly, then leave. _Get out_. You are no longer welcome here.”

 

She walks away, head held high. The shame in the air is palpable, and many of the company have to look away when she passes, Bilbo included. Never has he felt like such a fool as he does now. Thorin says something about hurrying up and leaving immediately, but the hobbit can’t find it within himself to move. He continues to watch after Sigrid, who climbs the stairs and sits with her young sister. She strokes the girl’s hair and whispers into her ear, soothing away the tears as best she can.

 

_This is our fault._

 

Bilbo feels tired and sad. He wants, desperately, to know what to do. He knows the quest is a worthy cause, that he cannot let Thorin’s recent madness colour his resolve to help the people of Erebor. But how can he follow a leader who thinks so callously of a family that has done so much to help them? How can he not care?

 

“Mister Bilbo, your things.”

 

Bombur and Bofur appear at his side, the heavy dwarf pressing a small backpack into his arms. He looks much better than he had yesterday, a little more colour in his face and a little less pain in his eyes. What troubles Bilbo the most is Bombur hasn't even considered staying behind. Dori, normally so fussy, has not issued a word of complaint either. His face seems considerably less splotchy, though it will be several days before he recovers completely.

 

And yet here they are, packed and ready to follow a man who has just screamed at the girl who took such good care of them yesterday.

 

He wants to say something, and he fully intends to, but when he thinks that he may have found the words there is a pounding at the front door of the house.

 

“City Guard!” a voice booms from the other side, “Open up or we will enter by force!”

 

Sigrid comes storming back down the stairs - Tilda is nowhere in sight now, hopefully having followed her sister’s orders and gone back to bed - a strange mix of anger and fear on her face. She pays no notice to Thorin, breezing past him to open the front door. But she is not quick enough, and the door bursts open as she reaches for it, knocking the girl backwards.

  
  
There are several Men on the doorstep, armed and clad in plate, their faces all identical masks of grim seriousness. One Man stands at the head, particularly dour as he crosses over the modest threshold.

 

“Captain Braga,” Sigrid says stiffly, clearly familiar with the one who seems to be in charge, “What are you doing here?”

 

He continues to force his way inside - not that Sigrid could put up much resistance, but he seems mindful not to harm her - and surveys the room full of dwarves. He seems to be a few years older than Bard, with graying ginger-brown hair and a matching beard. Unlike the drab colourings of the other Men’s armour, his has red accents and is polished finely.

 

“Sigrid. I’m afraid I must ask you to step aside. We are here for your … guests. Do not think to try and run out the back either, we have more guards watching the door. Now, Dwarves, is there a leader amongst you?”

 

Thorin pushes his way forward, and though he does not look as murderous as he had only minutes before the look in his eye could probably bore through the captain’s armour.

 

“What is your intent?” he asks, keeping a surprising reign on his hostility; Bilbo suspects he only does so because they have the advantage of being armed.

 

“By order of the Master of Laketown you are all under arrest on grounds of illegal entry into the city, conspiracy, and attempted possession of illegal arms.”

 

Oh no. If the guard knew they were here, and what they had tried to do, then that could only mean one thing. A strangled cry leaves Sigrid’s throat.

 

“Where is my father?” she demands, her voice trembling, “You must know if you are here. Please ...”

 

The captain sighs. “I don’t know where Bard is. We have men searching for him right now. We received information implicating him in the harbouring of unapproved travellers and that he had purchased a large number of illegal steel-forged blades. We were also given eyewitness reports of dwarves moving through the city, it was not hard to make the connection.”

 

“So you will arrest him then?”

 

“I’m afraid I will have to,” Braga replies solemnly, “Your father has broken the law.”

 

“Take us to this Master of Laketown,” Thorin interrupts, “I would speak with him myself. Immediately.”

 

For his part the captain seems surprised at the degree of cooperation that Thorin is willing to show. The other guardsmen shuffle nervously outside of the door, a subtle metallic rustling in the early morning air. “You lot will come peacefully then?”

 

“What choice have we?” Thorin replies, “You are armed, we are not, and I cannot afford any further delays. I would speak with your Master. Immediately.”

 

“Very well. Lads, escort these prisoners to the Master’s manor. Take them to the holding cells, I will arrange an audience.”

                                                                                                            

“Sir!”

 

The guardsmen stream in through the front door, surrounding the company and urging them forward. There is a lot of yelling and Bilbo is afraid for a moment that Dwalin is going to hit someone. Bilbo catches Sigrid scowling and turning away from them as he is shoved roughly by one of the Men. In the confusion of trying to herd dwarves, Thorin is suddenly at his side and grabs him by the elbow.

  
“Slip away if you can,” he says quietly, “If this goes poorly we will need your skills again.”

 

Someone pushes Thorin forward and the dwarf gives him a meaningful look before he turns to glare death at the guard who would dare to lay a hand on him. He shuffles forward with the rest of them, hands in his pockets. It shouldn’t be difficult to get away. The dwarves are rowdy and the Men are uneasy, focusing mostly on the unrulier members of the company. No one is looking directly at him.

 

_Patience_ , he thinks to himself as he is ushered into the cool early morning air.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili needs to make a choice. And probably have a bath. Gross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I managed to write another chapter in less then ... what was it, like 8 months?
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kind words and kudos after such a long hiatus. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

 

-

 

“Tauriel?”

 

She is not sleeping exactly, just resting her eyes for a moment, but the hand on her shoulder and quiet voice in her ear startles her nonetheless. Glancing upwards she is not so surprised to see who is frowning down at her.

 

“My Prince,” she says stiffly; she does her best to compose herself but the embarrassment of being caught off guard is not something she can easily recover from.

 

Legolas is stony faced as always. “May I speak with you privately?”

 

“Of course.”

 

He motions for her to follow him out into the hall and she falls into step with him immediately. The healers, still tending to Kili, nod at her as she glances at them on her way out. She is there to guard him, as ordered by Thranduil, but he is and will be unconscious for some time. They can certainly mind him without her presence for a short time.

 

Legolas brings her a few doors down to an identical but empty room. Unsullied by Dwarves or the potent smells of herbs and salves it’s almost like stepping into a spring meadow.

 

“Is it true what they say?” he asks in a harsh whisper, “That you had a part in aiding in their escape?”

 

Tauriel is not prepared for the accusation. She blinks at him in stunned silence for a moment before she can collect her thoughts. Did people say that? Were there those among her kin who believe that she could have a hand in schemes of Dwarves? Turning away, she paces to the other side of the room. There is anger and sadness conflicting within her, and just the barest hint of shame.

 

“Would you believe that of me?” she asks quietly, “Or do I not get the benefit of the doubt?”

 

Tauriel does not look at him - she is too shaken to meet his eye and embarrass herself further - but she can almost feel his scowl in the distance between them.

 

“You have always been a dear friend to me. I have never once questioned your loyalty to my father or the realm, nor will I now.”

 

“But you are asking me.”

 

“Because I would rather hear the words from you than from my father or his soldiers.”

 

When she finally musters the courage to turn and face him there is a look of deep concern on his normally stoic face. For some reason that puts her at ease.

 

“I had no part in this,” she says firmly, “I know your father believes otherwise, even if I was perhaps an unwitting pawn. Though I do not believe that to be true either.”

 

Something dark passes over his expression for a brief moment. “And you would believe the word of that Dwarf? Of one who came into our lands with secret intent and trailing enemies?”

 

Did she believe him? Kili had been so adamant about not being involved in the escape plan, especially so in regards to any potential deceptions toward her. There had been honesty there, a raw sincerity that even her own outrage could not completely overcome.

 

Valar help her, she believes that Dwarf.

 

“I do not think that he had intentions of deceiving me,” she replies cautiously, “Though there is much that he’s not telling us.”

 

He studies her for a long moment, sizing up the words as they hang in the air. After several long moments pass in silence she begins to feel a worrying knot in her stomach, but then he slouches his shoulders and sighs softly.

 

“If you believe this to be the case then I will leave it at that. I agree that there is information to be gleaned from the little beast, but if you think he has truly done no wrong by your misplaced good will then I will trust in your words.”

 

Tauriel exhales a long breath of relief. The loss of his trust, more than that of her King or all of their peoples, is perhaps the one she cannot bear gracefully.

 

“Thank you.”

 

A rare smile tugs at his lips and she knows that things are good between them.

 

“Perhaps you can speak with your father, make him see reason,” she continues hopefully, “I cannot stay here and babysit a Dwarf while there are Orcs in our borders. I am useless trapped within these walls, my place is on the hunt.”

 

Leoglas’ frown returns easily; he huffs and folds his arms over his chest. “That is a request that I cannot fulfill so readily. Father has shut the gates and will not let anyone leave, save on his command. There is no hunting party Tauriel; we are to hold and defend.”

 

She remembers Thranduil’s words from earlier in the day, that he will not care for the Orcs in the forest so long as the potential of greater threats loom overhead. A dragon slumbers in the mountain, a dragon that the Dwarves of Erebor were likely to disturb. Even still, surely King Thranduil will not allow packs of Orcs to run unchecked through their forests. Surely the servants of evil could not be allowed to live so readily?

 

“He cannot mean to do that. Not truly.”

 

“They will not linger here. The Orc pack pursues Thorin Oakenshield and his company, and they will follow them well beyond our land. My father’s missive is that we let this threat pass and keep our own people safe.”

 

“And what then? We allow them to descend upon the Lakemen?”

 

The people of Esgaroth have little in the ways of a fighting force. There is a long standing Guard, though their numbers are small and they have little experience in the ways of war. A pack of Orcs could overrun them with enough numbers, and while they certainly suffered heavy losses in their skirmish at the river there is no telling how many reinforcements may have joined them in the intervening time.

 

“It’s not our concern,” he says solemnly, his words lacking any kind of conviction.

 

“Not our concern?” she snaps back, anger flaring, “Since when did the spread of darkness and corruption fall from our notice? Would you really be content to sit back and allow those beasts to roam unchecked through the world, killing innocent people?”

 

“You know I would not - it’s not that simple. Father chooses to do what he believes is best for us. He chooses Mirkwood over Middle Earth. Elves over others.”

 

“And you think this to be right?”

 

“I think this to be the choice he has made.”

 

It is a strange reversal as now Legolas turns his gaze to avoid hers. It’s clear he does not agree with the King’s decision, perhaps even that he will side with her, but the resignation so clearly on his face makes Tauriel despair. Thranduil is not someone to cross; even his own son knows this.

 

“So that is it then?” she says quietly, “We will leave everything to chance?”

 

They stand there for a long time, staring at the floor and not at each other, before Legolas speaks up.

 

“There may be something we can do.”

 

Their eyes meet and she can’t help but feel hopeful.

 

“Father has made an offer to the Dwarf,” he continues hesitantly - perhaps this is information he is not to be sharing, “He is willing to give Thorin Oakenshield aid in retaking his mountain. In exchange for what, I do not know, but he would have the prisoner go to him as his emissary.”

 

”His emissary? To what end?”

 

“He is to persuade them to abandon their quest, to step back from whatever mad path they have set themselves on. If Thorin Oakenshield truly wishes to reclaim the home of his people then Father wishes to offer a united front.”

 

Tauriel finds herself taken aback. Thranduil, a beacon of isolationism and dislike of all things Dwarven, is willing to support a campaign to take back the mountain from the dragon?  

 

“Truly?” she asks, and she’s sure she feels her jaw unhinging just a little bit, “I find it difficult to believe the King would make so generous an offer after what happened.”

 

“It is as I said. He has given the Dwarf his options. Accept the request and petition his uncle or remain here until someone bids for his freedom. Father has allowed him some time to make a decision, though I expect he should decide quickly. It seems these Dwarves are running on a schedule of some sorts.”

 

So it was up to Kili to make this decision. How would he chose? Dwarves are fiercely stubborn creatures by nature, as it is widely known, and he is unlikely to side with his captors over his own kin. But surely he must see the folly in approaching the mountain alone, that having an alliance between their peoples - if the old enmity can be put aside -  could lead to a victory over the beast.

 

“There is perhaps a way to use this to our advantage, Tauriel.”

 

His tone is somewhat suspicious. Secretive. She furrows her brow at him. “How so?”

 

“It is obvious that the Dwarf fancies you, to some degree,” he says the words as if they leave a distaste in his mouth, “You can use that to influence his decision.”

 

An flush of something - embarrassment or offence, she’s not quite certain - burns up the back of her neck. “If you think I am going to bat my eyes at him and act like the demure maiden then I -”

 

Legolas throws up his hands. “Hold, Tauriel, I did not mean to offend. I am merely suggesting that you be kinder toward him, gain his trust.  If he were to trust your word then perhaps he can be convinced that Father’s plan is actually in his own best interests. He seems young and rash, perhaps not so set in his ways as his companions.”

 

“And what if he does not agree?”

 

“Then nothing will have changed for us, save you will be minding a Dwarf for the foreseeable future. We will remain in our kingdom, awaiting the possibility of dragonfire and death.”

 

Again there is that resignation in his voice that sets her ill at ease.

 

“You cannot know that for certain.”

 

“No, I cannot. But these are Dwarves we are dealing with, I am simply embracing the odds.”

 

Tauriel isn’t sure if that is supposed to be an attempt at humor, but she will concede the point.

 

It isn’t a terrible plan, not when he actually explains it properly and is not setting her up as some sort of prize to be won. Besides, she is still angry with Kili and the situation in general, and even though she is willing to believe that he did not betray their time together it’s still a sore spot. If not for him, if not for his interest, she would not be under so much suspicion. But she is a Captain of Mirkwood, a soldier, and she can set aside her feelings for a greater good. And this is the greater good after all.

 

“If the young Dwarf is to set out under my Father’s order then he will need his guard, will he not? A small contingent I believe, given that the roads are so dangerous these days.”

 

Thranduil would never send Kili out alone and Tauriel is his personal guard after all. She could take a small group maybe, those she trusted, and after delivering the Dwarf back to his uncle there will be nothing to keep them from hunting down those Orcs. And if this works, if the impossible were to happen and Elves and Dwarves allied to take back the mountain, then the dark forces will suffer a tremendous blow. People will be safe.

 

It is a greater good.

 

Tauriel takes a breath and dips her head to her Prince.

 

“I will see it done, as best I can.”

 

-

 

When Kili wakes, emerging from a black formless dream, it’s as if he is a different person.

 

He’s cool and dry, free of the fever sweats and their accompanying dizziness. The nausea is gone and his head is clear. His leg still aches faintly, though it is the kind of hurt he expects from taking an arrow and not from any seeping evil poisoning his blood. Tender, but bearable. When he shifts his weight he feels the heavy linen bandage move against his skin. A soft brown tunic covers his upper body, draping down to his knees. Too long for a Dwarf, but he supposes that the Elves must work with what they have.

 

“Ah, look at you,” a familiar voice greets him, “How are we feeling?”

 

Lalvien is hovering over him suddenly, her face impassive as usual. It is a marked improvement over having Thranduil looming in his personal space.

 

“Better,” he replies, and is secretly pleased to find that his voice is not nearly as raspy as it has been, “It seems as though I am finally benefiting from all of this ‘healing’ you have been inflicting on me.”

 

“Yes, well, I should hope so. We have worked rather hard at keeping you alive, and we have cleansed the Morgul taint from your blood as best we can. Though I must warn you that it is likely the wound will give you pain for some time. It may never fully heal, not properly anyways.”

 

He’s not quite sure, but he thinks he might hear a touch of regret in her voice. With a small amount of effort he sits himself up in the bed - the sheets have all been changed, he notes, and are much less filthy than before - taking care not to jostle his leg too much. There are a few twinges of pain, but it’s nothing compared to previous experiences.

 

“I’ll manage. Haven’t you heard, we Dwarves can be a bit stubborn.”

 

Lalvien actually laughs at this, a small musical sound that Kili rather likes, and for the first time in a long time he feels himself relax just a little bit.

 

“Stubborn or no, you will have to take it easy for the immediate future. As I promised, you will be walking straight and true once the muscles have had the proper time to recover, but I will need to have a more long term observation of the wound itself as your body repairs.”

 

It is not the circumstance he would have hoped for, but given what could have happened he is willing to accept it. And he is grateful, no matter how much he complains or makes light, to Lalvien and her healers for what they have done for him. Were the situation reversed, with an Elf in need of this kind of attention, he’s not sure Thorin would have been so accommodating.

 

“Thank you, for this. Thranduil could have left me to die and I would have expected it.”

 

Lalvien cocks her head, one delicate brow furrowing slightly. “I will not say that my King has done this for purely altruistic reasons, but even he is not so cruel as to let a man suffer through Morgul taint, even if he is a Dwarf. We may have our differences, but it is a healer’s job to be blind to them. I see only wounds, young Kili, those who are attached to them do not matter so much.”

 

He can’t help but smile. “That’s a rather idealistic view, my lady. If only we all saw it that way.”

 

“Truly. What is an age long hatred between races compared to a festering leg wound? But I digress. You are on the mend, and that’s what is important. Well, there is one other matter we must discuss.”

 

Oh. Right. He has a decision to make. He remembers his encounter with Thranduil clearly, despite being feverish and in too much pain. A choice lay before him; agree to the Elvenking’s demand and essentially betray the trust of his Uncle and kin or remain here in Mirkwood indefinitely. Neither is what he wants. What would Fili do? Which would he choose?

 

“This is not something I can just decide on a whim. Thranduil wishes that I would betray my Uncle’s quest and his trust, though I cannot deny that his concerns are valid. There is a great danger in going to the mountain, I know this." He grimaces, looking down at his hands, “But I don’t know what to do.  I know I will have to give him an answer soon, but I just … I just …”

 

"Hmm?” Lalvien is tilting her head at him,  “Oh. I was referring to your horrendous personal hygiene but that is also an important decision, yes. One thing at a time though I think."

 

"I … what?"

 

"You are filthy," she says plainly, "Quite honestly I have never seen anyone so filthy in all my life. I'm sure it's … _charming_ amongst your own people, but I have had at least three other healers who have refused to get within five feet of you."

 

Kili blinks, raises his arm and takes a long deep breath; Lalvien wrinkles her nose in disgust.

 

"It's not so bad," he shrugs, "I guess I've been sweating a little bit. We did travel quite a ways to get here you know."

 

"No. It is bad. To that end I'd like to suggest we take a trip to the baths. I'm sure it will do good for both your leg and your offensive odour. I would hate to see all of our work undone by a pointless infection."

 

“Do I really smell that bad?”

 

A new voice cuts across the room. “You smell worse than the collective back ends of every horse in Arda.”

 

Tauriel is standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a look of distaste in her expression. Has she been there this whole time and he’s just not noticed?

 

“Tauriel.”

 

The elf rolls her eyes and steps across the room until she comes to stand beside Lalvien. She’s still doing that thing where she won’t meet his eye directly, instead choosing to gaze down at his bandaged leg. Kili imagines that she’s probably still mad at him, as she has every right to be. He slumps a little against the bedding, picking at the sheets with his admittedly dirty fingers.

 

“When exactly was it the last time you had occasion to bathe? Or is that something Dwarves do at all?” Lalvien asks, tapping her chin with one delicate finger, “Judging by the layers of grime on your skin I would wager it’s been a long time since you’ve seen a good bar of soap. If ever.”

 

He thinks about it. When was the last time he’d had a bath proper. Not since setting out on their quest for certain. There had been a few times they had stopped at rivers or lakes to wash the blood from their clothes and out of their hair, but nothing so formal as the Elf was suggesting. As he ponders this, Lalvien makes a small noise of disgust.

 

“He cannot remember,” she says in a voice devoid of emotion, “He _cannot remember_.”

 

Lalvien and Tauriel share a look of utter revulsion.

 

“There is a small private spring, reserved for those in the care of healers. We will take you there. Come, let us see if you can stand.”

 

Kili is not entirely on board with this plan but he is in no position to argue it. Lalvien helps him to shuffle to the edge of the bed so his legs dangle over the side. Bracing himself he gently slides towards the floor, being sure to put the majority of his weight and momentum on his good leg; it’s not enough. Pain lances through his side and he crumples.

 

“There, there, easy now,” Lalvien stoops down and fusses over his wound, “It would seem that you are not quite ready to be wandering off on your own. I suppose we will have to resort to a back up plan. If you would, Captain, give me a hand and carry the young man?”

 

Tauriel sputters and Kili feels his pain ebb away into embarrassment, both at being unable to walk and the thought of the Elf having to carry him.

 

“C-carry him?” Tauriel stammers, “If he cannot walk then he can just fester in his own stink until he can.”

 

Lalvien clucks her tongue in a disapproving manner. “Come now, you were assigned to be his guard, were you not? I would vastly prefer that he not be left to ‘fester in stink’, as I must be in close quarters with him for the foreseeable future. I can do it alone if I must, but it would be easier if we worked together. There is no need to be so stubborn.”

 

Kili thinks he sees a smile on the healer’s face at that last bit. He watches Tauriel shift uncomfortably from foot to foot and feels guilty for putting her in yet another awkward position.

 

“It’s fine,” he says. “I can do this.”

 

He reaches up to grab the bed frame as a support and attempts to pull himself to his feet. His legs quake, unsteady and pained, and after a few failed attempts he does manage to get himself upright. Breathing heavily he puts all of his weight to his good side, leaning against the bed to compensate for the rest. If they think they have seen stubbornness, well, he will show them what it truly means.

 

“I can do it,” he repeats firmly, “I do not need to be carried.”

 

He takes another breath and then pushes away from the bedframe, taking a small step forward. It hurts and his entire body trembles, but it is nothing like what he experienced when the wound was fresh and the arrow still in his thigh. He can do this. He doesn’t need their help. A Son of Durin does not need -

 

Three paces forward and his bandaged leg buckles beneath his weight. Kili flails his arms and begins to topple forward. Shit. A stream of curses begin to erupt from his mouth as he feels himself fall. But before his face can become intimately familiar with the flooring, a strong hand on his shoulder stops him. Tauriel is there, holding him up and finally, finally, she is looking at him.

 

“I do not need to be carried,” he says quietly, meeting those intense green eyes with resolution, “You do not need to do this. I’ll crawl if I must.”

 

Tauriel’s eyes narrow slightly, as if in offence or confusion, he is not entirely certain. Her grip in his shoulder is strong, steadying, and she makes no move to release him.

 

“You are going to reopen your wounds, Kili.”

 

Without hesitation she bends down, drapes one of his arms around her shoulder and scoops him up. Kili squawks in protest and she stumbles for a moment under his weight. Dwarves may be short, yes, but they are a dense people and he’s not sure Tauriel is going to be able to support him. His leg throbs, a dull but constant reminder of his injury. He tries not to think about the fact that he’s only wearing his small clothes and a flimsy cotton tunic while a woman has her hands all over him.

 

“Put me down,” he demands, attempting to shift away, “I can do this on my own!”

 

“You cannot do this on your own you stupid little Dwarf,” she snaps back, “Stop struggling, I can carry you fine if you would be still.”

 

“I do not need your help! I am not so helpless a thing you know.”

 

“Oh yes, let’s all look at the great Dwarven warrior who’s got himself stuck with an arrow and can’t walk more than three paces.” her tone softens and there is genuine concern behind her words, “Do not be so prideful as to refuse my help Kili. Lalvien is right, this will be easier of we all cooperate. Please allow me to  do this for you.”

 

To her credit she manages to regain her balance as she hefts him in her arms. He has seen her capabilities as a warrior first hand, all fluid deadly grace, but he is surprised at her physical strength for a creature so tall and thin. Kili stills himself, relaxing as he grips her around the shoulders. Perhaps he is being foolish.

 

“Does this mean you aren’t angry with me anymore?”

 

He risks a glance up towards her face. She is turned away from him, but he can’t help but notice the wry twist to her lips.

 

“That remains to be seen,” she replies, “My goodwill is not something to be earned back so easily.”

 

“Then I will endeavor to try, my lady,” Kili smiles, hopeful that maybe she’s willing to forgive him, “Perhaps I should start with a bath?”

 

“Yes please,” Lalvien breezes by them carrying an armful of linens and small clay pots, “Follow me Captain.”

 

It is a short walk from his sick room to the private bath chambers. They travel only a few doors down an unremarkable hallway before the healer ushers them through an open archway. The private spring is enclosed within a room about twice the size of the other, with an open ceiling that gave way to a magnificent view of the night sky. Starlight reflected in the still surface of the water, a celestial mirror that is just as beautiful. There is no flooring here, as the water is surrounded by a carpet of plush green grass.

 

There are two young Elves attending the springs, a boy and a girl, all dark hair and darker eyes, who looked like reflections themselves. Twins, maybe? They stare at Kili as Tauriel gently sets him down at the pool’s edge. Lalvien says something softly them in Sindarin and they jump to life, moving to light lanterns around the enclosure. They work quickly, engulfing the room in the soft glow of firelight.

 

“Thank you Derenil. Merileth. See to it that Master Kili’s room is cleaned and there is a meal waiting upon our return.”

 

“Yes my Lady,” they squeak in unison and dart out of sight.

 

“Efficient little things,” Kili comments and Lalvien kneels down next to him.

 

“Ah, yes. New apprentices, always eager to please. Now, if you would allow me to remove your bandages before you get in? Off with the shirt as well, but I’ll allow you your underclothes for the sake of modesty.”

 

Kili tugs the tunic over his head, letting it fall into a heap beside him. The night air is someone chilly against his exposed skin; winter is definitely on its way. Lalvien gently unwraps the bindings from his leg, mindful not to graze the wound too much. It’s not all that agonizing, just mildly uncomfortable. Tauriel sits to his other side. She’s removed her boots and rolled up her leggings to dip her feet in the water; there is a look of contentment on her face that makes Kili’s heart thump a little faster in his chest.

 

When Lalvien has finished Kili looks down at his thigh and winces. The arrow wound is not quite closed, damp with blood that struggles to break the surface. It’s  angry and red, puckered against his skin.

 

“It looks better,” the healer says, and Kili does not want to remember how it looked before, “The bleeding has stemmed significantly, though it hasn’t closed up as well as I would have liked. Right then, let’s get you into the water.”

 

Kili is able to do this himself, at least. Using his upper body he gently slides himself down into the spring. When the wounded skin submerges it stings only a little, no worse than a paper cut. The water is not deep, at least not in this part, and when his rear bumps the soft sandy bottom it’s just up to his shoulders. He imagines, were Tauriel to get in with him, it would come to her chest. His leg jostles as he settles, but he barely notices. The water is warm and soothing in all the ways that make the aches drain from his body. Kili sighs a little as he props his elbows at the water’s edge, letting his arms spread into the surrounding grass. Mahal, this is wonderful.

 

“That’s not so bad now, is it?” Tauriel says; she’s watching him from the corner of her eye, a smirk on her lips.

 

“Not so bad,” he agrees, closing his eyes and slouching a little, “We have baths back home,  but not like this. The water is always scalding. Mother would say that Dwarves were made of rocks and boiling water.”

 

“That doesn’t sound very relaxing.”

 

“They aren’t meant for relaxing. They’re meant for scouring away a days work at the forge or in a mine.”

 

He feels a tap on the shoulder, and Lalvien is there with a bar of soap in one hand and a square of cloth in the other. “Here. It’s not scalding water, but I’m sure you can use these to scour yourself anyways.”

 

Lalvien excuses herself then, promising to return when he is ready to leave the bath. Rounds to make, she claims, vanishing in a flourish of green robes. Tauriel remains, a cloudy expression on her face as she toes idly at the water. A heavy, awkward silence settles around them and Kili lathers up the soap on the washcloth.

 

It’s interesting to watch the swirling colours of dirt and oil in the water as he scrubs them from his skin. The cloth is mostly black by the time he’s done, and maybe he can concede the point that he was, in fact, extremely filthy.  He dips his head below the surface, scrubbing at his hair as well. He has to untangle and undo his braids, which have become little more than knots, and his nearly pulls his hair out in the process.

 

Fili would usually do this for him.

 

He works at the stubborn hair with his fingers and wonders what his brother is doing right now. Were they at the mountain yet? Would they disturb the dragon? The baths had been a momentary distraction, but he finds his thoughts drifting full force back to his circumstance.

 

“What day is it?” he asks quietly, not looking at Tauriel; he focuses on unknotting his hair.

 

“By the common calendar I believe it the early morning of the eighteenth day of October.”

 

The eighteenth?  Already?  Durin’s Day is only one day away. So little time. Would it even matter if he agreed to Thranduil’s proposition? It was likely that Thorin and his company were already at the mountain, making preparations for Bilbo to steal back the Arkenstone. Had they been waylaid by Orcs? There are so many things that could have happened and Kili has no idea. His fingers tear through a particularly large matte and he slumps in the spring.

 

“What should I do?”

 

He glances at Tauriel, who furrows her brow and kicks her feet in the water. “What do you mean?”

 

“You know what I mean,” he is not going to be so naive as the think that she doesn’t know exactly the situation he is in, “Thranduil’s offer. You must know the details, given he has made you my personal guard.”

 

“And what would you have me tell you, Dwarf?” Tauriel asks coolly, “Are you asking me to make a decision for you now? My answer would be obvious. Take the offer, go to your Uncle."

 

Of course that's what she would say, it would have surprised him to hear otherwise.

 

“And don’t misunderstand my meaning,” she continues, “I would bid you do this not on Thranduil’s word, but as an act of decency. I am stuck here because of you, when I should be on the hunt of those Orcs you and your kin dragged through our forest. The King fears the threat of dragonfire reigning down on us, and rightly so, but he has little regard for the safety of those outside of our borders. We have been insolation too long, it has blinded his heart. There are Men on the Lake, good people who will be caught in the middle, and I can do nothing to help them.”

 

There is a sadness behind her words that Kili feels keenly as she speaks, turning a knot of guilt in his gut. He had known from his lessons that there is still a community of Men who live in the mountain’s shadow - the ghost of Dale, what fled from Smaug - but he has not even considered them once since this quest began. Thranduil spoke of them, but even then they had been far from his thoughts. Tauriel’s sincerity made him feel like the world’s biggest ass.

 

“If the Orcs do not tear through them on their way to the mountain, the dragon certainly will. Laketown will be an easy target.”

 

Kili frowns. “The dragon will not necessarily wake. It might even be dead already, it has not been seen outside the mountain for some years we were told.”

 

“It is foolish to depend on that,” she snaps back, “You cannot know for certain. If that beast is turned loose, it is not just the lake and the forest that will suffer. Men, Elves, Dwarves. We all burn the same. Evil goes to that mountain, Kili. Would you not stand against that?”

 

Mahal does she ever know how to grind that guilt. Tauriel is looking at him expectantly, a challenge on her face.

 

“You have a good heart, Tauriel. It’s not so many who think about the good of others beyond their own gains. Of course I’ve no desire to see anyone suffer on our account, but it is not so easy.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why? Because you are asking me to go against my Uncle, to side with the Elf who turned our people away and let us burn. Even if it is in good will, even if the motivations are pure as the driven snow, it will still be looked on as an act of betrayal. They will think you have poisoned my mind against them.”

 

“I would rather people look to me as a traitor then let them die. Is your pride more important than the lives of your kin? Would you rather let them charge into a dragon’s nest, unprepared and overwhelmed, then broker the idea of unity?”

 

A growl of frustration rumbles in his throat as he drags his hands across his face. The points she makes are all valid. Thranduil’s intentions aside, the thought of an army to reclaim Erebor over a secret entrance and burglar is a tempting one. Had the other Dwarf families backed this endeavor they wouldn’t need Hobbits or Elves. But that is not the case. And, as Tauriel had so pointed out, there are Orcs closing in on the mountain as well that need to be dealt with. Her idealism is infectious, almost to the point where he thinks he can believe in it. If Tauriel could have her way he expects she would march to the mountain on her own and drag Thorin back kicking and screaming.

 

“And when Uncle refuses?” he asks, “What would we do?”

 

He’s not sure when this became ‘we’ instead of ‘you’, but it’s a connotation he rather likes, despite the situation.

 

“Whatever we can to make him see the right in it,” she replies with a sage nod, “But I will have hope that your Uncle, or those who travel with him, are not lost to reason. This is a chance, not only to help those who would be put into peril, but to perhaps soothe some bad blood. We once coexisted here. Can we not do so again? Can we not drive the servants of evil from our homes?”

 

“I’ve not yet a home to drive them from.”

 

Kili jumps a little when he feels her hand settle on his bare, wet shoulder. Tauriel’s fingers are warm and strong against his skin.

 

“You could,” she says quietly, and Kili feels his resolve beginning to crumble.

 

The fingers slip away then and his shoulder feels cold. The Dwarf looks up towards the stars, endless pinpoints of light against the void. Can he really do this? Can he go to the man who raised him, who loved both he and his brother as if they were his own sons, and ask him to give up his noble quest at the behest of the Elvenking who had wronged him so?

 

 _It will be for good,_ he tells himself, _He will see it. He must._

 

Thorin was a good man who cared for his people. Surely he will understand their own foolishness in haste, surely he will know that Kili would do this out of love. He is not sure what he will do if he does not, but for the sake of those he loves he will try.

 

“Tell Thranduil I will do it,” the words are almost painful to pass from his lips.

 

The smile that lights up her face will be a wonderful memory that he can cling to for a very long time.

 

-

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigrid goes in search of answers but just gets more questions.

 

-

 

A bitter wind blows in from the lake. Sigrid feels it through her coat, a sharp chill that defies the layers she wears. It’s mid morning, but the sun is weak through thick grey clouds that will likely open with snow by the days end. A shiver racks her body and she pulls the heavy scarf around her head and shoulders a little tighter.

 

The lower piers of Laketown are not a place she frequents. It’s a place of poor reputation, where thugs and unsavoury folk congregate amongst rundown shacks and the skeletons of boats that were no longer water worthy. The air reeks of dead fish and sour ales, and everywhere she looks there are piles of garbage and other refuse. If her Da knew she was here by herself he would likely give himself heart failure. But it’s because of him that she is here in the first place.

 

_Where did you get yourself to?_

 

Sigrid doesn’t know what she should believe. Captain Braga says that they don’t know where he is, but he will be arrested on sight. They had once been good friends, her father and Braga, when Sigrid was little and still had her mother. Now there is bad blood, resentment and strong egos. But is that enough for him to outright lie? The Guard is firmly under the Master’s thumb and she would not be surprised if her father had already been taken in. He always returns to his children, no matter the cost. But what if he's hurt? What if he’s …

 

She shakes her head violently, nearly whipping her scarf off in the wind. “No, can’t think like that. He’s fine. He’s always fine.”

 

Sigrid needs more than the dubious words of the Guard Captain and her own childish self assurance. Immediately after the Dwarves are taken away and she is sure that the men are gone she rounds up Bain and Tilda, packs them up some clothes and takes them out of the house. It’s not safe to be here, not until Da comes back, and she can’t leave them alone. Sigrid herds them to Elsie the washer woman’s house, who often minds them when she has too many errands to run and their Da is out working. Both were adamantly against it - Tilda cried herself red in the face and Bain challenged her authority like never before, shouting that he’s too old for this and that boys can take care of themselves. But Sigrid hears none of it, being near enough a woman grown to know what’s best and threatens them both an unforgettable hiding if they so much as look out a window after her. They relent eventually, tear-faced and angry, making her promise to be gone for no more than a few hours. Elsie has been more than accommodating, insisting that they stay with her and her daughters until Bard is found; Sigrid will happily take her up on that offer, not trusting in their own safety with so many eyes and ears on their home.

 

And now here she is, alone in the worst part of the city, trailing after the only lead she has on her father’s activities.

 

The Free Market. It’s her best chance at finding him. Sigrid knows only a little of it’s existence and purpose, and what knowledge she does have she’d had to pry from her father. It’s not like the market square, where vendors and farmers hawked their wares for what little coin the people had. There is no stall or shop front to browse. It is a network, a means for people to obtain items or information that would otherwise be cut off to them. There is one name she knows - Varrah. Sigrid knows this because Varrah was at the house once, a few years ago, and she had opportunity to listen in on a conversation from the loft, where she was supposed to be sleeping. The details of that conversation are lost to her, forgotten over time, but the name stuck.

 

An hour of asking around the regular market after this woman yields a lot of shrugs and shaken heads, and one or two disapproving looks, and just as she is beginning to feel like this was a waste of time she felt a hand tap on her shoulder. It was old widow Heike, hunched over her walking stick and giving her one of the sternest looks she has ever seen.

 

_“Are you sure you want to be asking after this, child?” the old woman questions, “There are dangers with those ones.”_

_“Do you know her?” Sigrid is desperate, “Please, do you know where I can find her?”_

_“Your Da would have my old skin for drapes if he knew I sent his dear Sig down to those rats. They’ve got too many notions that don’t sit right.”_

_She takes one of widow Heike’s thin, frail hands in her own and stoops to meet her at eye level. “I have to know what happened to Da. He went to them last night, to the Market, and now he’s not come home. Captain Braga and his Guard will arrest him if they haven’t already. You know the Master will take any excuse to have it out with him. Please.”_

_The widow shakes her head softly, and before shuffling away says, “Hookman’s Guts. Lower piers. Might find them holed up there, making their plans. Be careful, dear Sig, they won’t take well to you.”_

And so here she is, standing in the cold outside of a lake-soaked hut at the end of a rotting dock. A weather battered sign hangs from a chain that is nearly rusted through, and Sigrid can just make out the word ‘Guts’ in long faded paint. The light of a lantern can barely be seen through the sole grime encrusted window, and from inside floats the sounds of raucous laughter. There is no door, just a ratty tarp hammered over the entrance. A bird hops restlessly along the window sill, peering at her with small dark eyes and tilting it’s head, as if questioning her decision to be here. Just looking at this place makes every nerve in her body quake. She should not be here. She should definitely not be here.

 

 _I can’t run away like a terrified maiden_ , she steels herself, I can do this. _Just pretend like they’re Bain and Tilda in need of a scolding._

 

Sigrid straightens her back, takes a breath, and pushes through the tarp.

 

Once upon a time this may have been a tavern of some sorts. There’s a decrepit looking wooden bar along the back wall and a few shelves that have mostly pulled away from their fixtures. A few desperate dusty bottles look like they will fall to the the floor at the slightest breeze.  Behind the bar is another small doorway, illuminated by a second, weaker lightsource. There is one table, a massive wooden slab that is cracked down the middle; a single oil lamp burns lazily at its centre, balanced precariously across the split.

 

Two men sit on overturned barrels across from each other. One is older, with dark skin and a mass of scar tissue over his left eye. A halo of short greying hair crowns his otherwise bald head.  Despite the winter chill in the air he wears a thin sleeveless shirt and torn breeches. The other is a youth bundled in tattered furs, perhaps a handful of years older than her, and starkly ginger with wild uncombed hair. They both look up immediately as she steps inside, laughter dying in their throats.

 

Oh this was a bad idea.

 

“Oi, what have we here?” the young man jumps to his feet, a grin stretching across his face, “Look at this lost little lamb. Think you may have turned a wrong corner sweetheart.”

 

He’s up in her personal space immediately, and Sigrid tries to flinch away. He reeks of sweat and his breath is rancid, and when he presses himself against her side she shrieks in disgust. The older man says nothing, but she feels the weight of his good eye just as keenly as the boy’s unwanted proximity. A finger wraps around a loose strand of her hair and she can’t move her legs.

 

“The Hell is going on out here?”

 

As Sigrid is considering bolting back outside, a harsh female voice cuts across the room. The young man seems startled, immediately stepping aside; she uses the opportunity to shuffle back towards the tarp at the entrance. A woman in her middling years appears from the door behind the bar, a wild, angry expression on a face that sparks familiarity. Also starkly ginger - related to the man in some way, likely - she’s in dirty deerskin leggings and a man’s coat that’s seen better days. Her hair is pulled back in a tight fisher’s braid that makes her angular face seem extra stern.

 

“Who are you?” she demands, focusing on Sigrid like a hunting dog would it’s prey, “What do you want?”

 

It takes several moments before Sigrid can find her words. In a small  voice she says, “I .. um, I’m looking for Varrah.”

 

“Yeah that’s me,” there is a challenge in the way she holds herself, like she’s expecting a fight, “Who’s asking? Out with it, ya.”

 

_Be strong. Don’t let them intimidate you. It’s just Bain and Tilda, remember._

 

“M-my name is Sigrid. I’m looking for my Da,” she does her best not to let her feelings betray her, but given the snickering from the younger man she imagines she must seem absolutely foolish, “He would have come to you last night. Or someone like you. He didn’t come home.”

 

Varrah furrows her brow. “Lot’s of men come around here. You’re gonna have to be more specific, girl.”

 

“Bard,” she says, clenching her fists at her side to steady herself, “I am looking for Bard.”

 

The outward hostility gives way, replaced by a look of shock. Varrah strides towards her, shoving the younger ginger out of her way; he slinks back to the table and sits down, for which Sigrid is grateful. The older man at the table, who’s barely done so much as look at her, inhales sharply through his nose.

 

“You’re the Bargeman’s daughter?” he asks, raising the unscarred side of his brow.

 

They know him then, at the very least, and if their reactions are any indication then her father’s name must hold some weight. She straightens herself, holding her chin up for the first time since she crossed the dirty threshold.

 

“Bullshit,” Varrah snaps, “Bard would never involve his kids in this, doesn’t want them to know he associates with pier rats. Who are you really? Out with it before I toss you to the lake!”

 

Sigrid has never felt this kind of boneless fear in all her life, as if her entire body might just give up and collapse. But she can’t show that. She holds herself up right, keeping her head up even if there is a bit of a shake to it.

 

“I know you,” she responds, pleased that her voice is not as shaky as the rest of her felt, “I saw you at the house, arguing with Da. That’s how I found you, I remembered your name.”

 

Varrah scowls, crossing her arms over her chest. “Huh. Fine then, say you are his brat. Why should I help you?”

 

“I know he went to the Free Market last night. Da would have been asking for steel arms and other provisions, enough for a party of twelve. He didn’t come home and I want to know what’s happened.”

 

A heavy silence follows, a suffocating tension that fills the room. The three adults exchange long looks with each other that Sigrid can’t read and it makes her nervous. Are they going to take her seriously, or has she made a colossally stupid mistake in coming here? Varrah finally grumbles something under her breath and then makes a sweeping motion with her hand.

 

“Fucking shit. Bert, you go stand out front. No one comes in til I say, don’t care who it is.”

 

“But Mam -” The young ginger complains, but a withering look from Varrah shuts him up immediately.

 

“Go on, get! And don’t think I don’t know what you were doing either, creepin’ up on some young girl like a damned pervert. Ain’t I taught you better than that?” she grabs him by the ear and pulls him to his feet, “You put your greasy hands on another girl like that and I find out about it you’re going to be fishing them fingers of yours from the bottom of the lake. Apologize to the girl, unless you want Bard to strike you down for making untowards at his pretty daughter.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, a look of intense fear in his watery blue eyes, “Sorry, really. Please don’t tell the Bargeman.”

 

He doesn’t wait to find out if she actually accepts this, and disappears through the tarp quickly, staring down at his feet the entire time. Sigrid is unsure whether to be glad at this sudden intervention, but just having him out of the room makes it a little easier to breathe. Varrah moves towards the back room again, still motioning for her to follow. It takes her a moment but she finds her feet. The other man stands finally as she passes, and Sigrid wills herself not to tense up too much as he walks behind her.

 

The back room is little more than a closet. There is a large overturned crate that is functioning as a table, with a small candle stick off the the left and it’s surface littered with papers. Varrah maneuvers herself around behind it and sits on a rickety looking stool.

 

“Sit down then, we ain’t got all day.”

 

An overturned bucket rests in front of her. She looks at it and can’t stop herself from making a face as she eases down carefully. The man hovers around behind her, leaning in the doorframe. Sigrid is essentially trapped and she knows it, but she can’t let them see how frightened she is. They respect her father’s name, so they should respect her as well.

 

“I don’t know how you knew where to find us and I ain’t going to ask,” Varrah starts talking, “Really I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, you bein’ the Bargeman’s kid and all. You know my name. Clever. That great lummox behind you is Montblanc.”

 

Sigrid glances in his direction and he simply nods once. She is getting the impression that Montblanc does not do much speaking.

 

“I’m impressed a girl like you would walk herself down to the pier alone, looking after the Market, though I gotta say you’re lacking a great deal of common sense. Men down here aren’t all as stupid and easily cowed as Bert, if you catch my meaning.”

 

She is probably right about that. Sigrid is not a stranger to the wandering eyes of men; she catches roving glances when she’s out running chores, though usually no one is bold enough or interested enough to approach her any farther. She wonders, too, how much of that is her Da’s reputation. But she knows that some men do not care for reputations or appearances or a girl’s decency; they will take what they want when an opportunity presents itself.

 

“What do you know about my father?” she replies, shifting the topic away from her own stupidity and back to what is important.

 

“Right to the heart of the matter, eh? Right then, I’ll tell you what I know.”

 

Varrah shuffles through the seemingly disorganized papers in front of her, snatching up a few and collecting them together.

 

“I did not speak to Bard personally, though I do know some of the details. He came to one of my associates late in the night, asking for high quality steel arms. Cashed in a lot of favours and handed out more than a few coins as I hear it. Let me tell you, the quantity and quality he asked for was not an easy fill, especially at the speed he wanted. He also asked after a couple of boats, enough to ferry a dozen or so people out of the city. You want to know more, you tell me why he needed all this stuff.”

 

So that’s how it was going to be then. Information for information. Sigrid has a brief moment of hesitation, conflicted over whether she should share about her recent house guests. She was certainly angry with them - well, really just their arrogant, thoughtless leader -  but she did like the ones who had taken the time to speak with her and thank them for their hospitality. Still, the Guard dragged them off in broad daylight. It won’t be long before all  of Laketown knew they were here.

 

“Dwarves,” she replies evenly, “Da was acting for them. They paid him to bring them into the city and get supplies.”

 

This leaves Varrah looking puzzled. “Truly? We’ve not seen that lot here in some time, least not proper. Got a few contacts over in the hills that we can deal with from time to time, but most of the sanctioned trade dried up a long time ago.”

 

“They claimed to be merchants that had fallen on bad times and were on their way to meet with their kin.”

 

The older woman hums and clucks her tongue. “And do you think that’s true?”.

 

Of course it wasn't true. Fili all but confirmed that for her, though he was too afraid of his uncle’s wrath to say anymore. They all had been, for that matter.

 

“No,” Sigrid shakes her head and settles her hands on top of the crate, “They wouldn’t say their true intentions. There were many among them that would have trusted this information with us, but they were turned back by their leader.”

 

“His name?”

 

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t give it.”

 

A deep furrow creases her brow. Varrah looks back at Montblanc, who remains silent but clearly in thought. It seems that the news of Dwarves might have them worried, though Sigrid can’t imagine why. They were in such a hurry to leave it’s unlikely their secretive dealings have anything to do with Laketown.

 

“Where are these Dwarves now?”

 

“Arrested by the Guard. They waited for Da to come home with their steel, but when he didn’t show the leader of their company made them all pack up to leave. Captain Braga was at the door before they could,” Sigrid needs to take a breath to compose herself. “They know that Da was involved, that he had these weapons smuggled in and that he was harbouring undocumented travellers. The captain said he would arrest him, but I am not so convinced that they haven’t already done so. Da would never let anything keep him from the house for this long.”

 

“And what is it exactly that you’re dancing around here? Come on, out with it.”

 

The woman is certainly perceptive. Sigrid is not entirely sure how to go about saying it, so she just lets the words tumble out of her mouth.

 

“Someone told them about his deal. Someone who was involved maybe.”

 

Varrah slams her fists down on the makeshift table, sending several papers flying and nearly knocking over the candle; Sigrid peeps in surprise and almost falls off of her bucket.

 

“Do you realize what you are saying, girl?” she snaps, eyes burning, “You’re implyin’ that someone in the Free Market leaked about the job.”

 

Whatever small amount of ease she has gained in their presence quickly vanishes in the face of Varrah’s indignant accusations.

 

“I … he said they had information about him purchasing blades, that he had people in the house,” she responds quietly, “How did they know? Da’s always so careful.”

 

She is not so naive about her father’s business. Sigrid knows that he helps a lot of people, that he does all he can to see them fed and warm and survive another year. That kind of work can’t be done without going behind the law sometimes, especially in a place where the law didn’t care if it’s people lived or died.

 

“She make’s a point, Varrah,” Montblanc finally speaks up, “Bard is watched like a hawk, but he’s still our best man. This information seems awfully specific to be coincidence.”

 

Varrah’s outrage redirects to him, and Sigrid has to stop herself from sagging in relief. “And you’re gonna take the word of some waif who wanders in off the street?”

 

His good eye narrows in a disbelieving squint. “You’re the one who brought her in to talk. This is good intel, we should be listening to what she has to say. If the Bargeman’s really gone and gotten himself taken in or worse we’re going to be in a bad position. He’s too important.”

 

“Don’t turn this around on me,” she snarls and huffs, “Would you believe that we’ve got a turncoat then? You think someone’s gone rogue?”

 

Montblanc shrugs, rolling his broad shoulders. “I think it’s worth looking into.”

 

Varrah slumps against the table, pressing her palms against her eyes and sighing dramatically. “Alright. Alright.  Check the lines, see if you can find out if anyone’s seen Bard since the deal went down. If not, send out some feelers to the manor. Tell that worthless son of mine that I want a list of names, everyone involved in the deal.”

 

Sigrid thinks she might see a smirk on Montblanc’s face, the closest she’s seen to an actual emotion on him. “I’m on it.”

 

“And for the sake of the Valar be fucking discreet,” she calls at him as he shuffles away, “If this turns out to be for nothin’ I don’t want it back to me. And find out who those fucking Dwarves are, I don’t want any surprises!”

 

The two are alone now and it makes Sigrid supremely uncomfortable. Varrah is giving her a cold, scrutinizing look from across the table and she can’t help but flinch.

 

“You gotta stop doin’ that,” the woman grumbles, “Jumping around like a spooked cat. No one will take you seriously.”

 

She’s not entirely sure what that’s supposed to mean.

 

“Bard’s a good man, even if he relies on scum like us to get his work done, and you should be proud of that. Be proud to be his daughter, and everyone will respect you for it.”

 

“I am proud of him,” she replies, uncertain of what one thing had to do with the other.

 

“Then act like it. You come shufflin’ in here all demure and timid, looking for scraps when you should demand the whole.  Hold that pretty head high. Stop trembling like a brittle leaf and raise your voice; people will take notice.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

  
She doesn’t understand and she’s not sure if she wants to.

 

“A time might come when you need to use it. Consider it free advice, one woman to another,” Varrah begins to collect the papers she scattered in her earlier fit. She seems much calmer now, and Sigrid wonders if she is perhaps prone to wild mood swings. “You should go back, I know you got little ones that are probably waitin’ on you.”

 

But she still doesn’t know anything. After all of this, the intimidating glares and strange conversation, she is no closer to knowing her father’s fate then when she set out that morning in the cold. Her fingers curl on the table, dragging across the splintered wood.

 

“I can’t go back empty handed.”

 

Maybe it’s the desperation in her voice, but she is surprised when Varrah’s expression softens a little; her lips turn downward, though not unkindly.

 

“We will find him, make no mistake. Whether he’s been nabbed or he’s hiding out somewhere or, well … in a less savoury position, we will find out. Are you still staying at the house?”

 

“No. I took my brother and sister to Madame Elsie’s house. She’s always been very generous with us, and she’s offered to let us stay there until Da comes back. I didn’t feel good about staying at the house.”

 

“The washer woman. Good. That’s good. Be on the front stoop at sun down, someone will bring you word, good or bad. Now go on, get off. I’m a busy woman here.”

 

Varrah waves her off, and makes a show of ignoring her existence by rifling through her paperwork. Sigrid stands there awkwardly for a moment, wanting more from this woman but unable to ask for it. Maybe if she was more like her, so vocal and confident, she could have demanded it. Instead she mumbles a goodbye and shuffles out of the small back room.

 

The main room of the former tavern is empty, no sign of Bert or Montblanc; the oil lantern has been snuffed, leaving it dim. As she passes through the tarp into the morning air, she wonders what this place would have been like when it was a real business. Small, but cozy. Filled with the laughter of friends. She pictures a place that her father would have liked and it makes her smile.

 

A cold wind blasts her in the face when she steps outside and she stumbles back. It’s not snowing, but the threat of it is plain. As she collects herself, Sigrid catches sight of a bird - is that the same bird or a different one? - perched across from the rundown shack on one of the pier’s support poles. It’s a thrush, brown with a white spotted belly, common to the area surrounding the lake though they rarely came into the city; even the birds knew to stay away. It dances back and forth, tilting it’s head and staring. Studying. Sigrid stares back.

 

“Hello little bird,” she says, smiling despite the weather and her mood, “It’s a bit cold for you to be here, isn’t it?”

 

It bobs it’s head, and for a moment she allows herself the silly notion that it can understand what she’s saying. She laughs, tightens her coat around her, and begins to walk away.

 

“Lady! Lady!”

 

A clear, high voice calls after her. That wasn’t Varrah, certainly. She turns back and no one is there. Just  the thrush, puffing out it’s feather’s against the cold. It’s still looking at her and Sigrid is startled when it flaps it’s wings and flies toward her; a tiny shriek escapes her when the bird attempts to land on her shoulder. She feels its little talons through her coat, though it seems to take care not to shred the fabric or cut into her skin.

 

“Lady!” There is no mistaking where this is coming from now, “Danger is coming! Danger, Lady!”

 

Before Sigrid can even think to respond - her mind is still reeling to try and come to terms with this - it hops from her shoulder and takes wing. She watches dumbly as it flies north, toward the mountain and out of sight. She stares down at the spot on her shoulder where it had briefly perched. Some threads were now loose and a small collection of fluff clings to it. As her fingers graze over it she wonders if anyone is going to believe her.

 

 _No, they’ll think I’m mad_ , she thinks to herself as she begins the walk back to Elsie’s place. _Best keep this to myself._

 

___

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so birds. I'm going there. I understand why they cut this out of the movies but I was kind of sad to see it go so I'm bringing it back. Just a little differently then in the books. 
> 
> Also I hope people aren't too put off by ocs (Lalvien, the free market people, etc), but I find them necessary to tell this kind of a larger scale story. They won't ever be centre stage, but they will be around.


End file.
